Delaying the Heart
by Azraeos
Summary: Dumbledore needs a sponsor for the Order. Sirius volunteers, grudgingly, for the job. But through what hoops will he have to jump to get his vault back from his mother? OFC. Romance.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, it belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. I write it purely for the sake of my own and others enjoyment. 

**Summary:** Dumbledore needs a sponsor for the Order. Sirius has volunteered (grudgingly) for the job. But through what hoops will he have to jump to get his vault back from his mother? OFC. Romance.

A/N: This is going to be a story with an OFC. I promise I will not make her a Mary Sue, but you do need to know that this is going to be a full blown romance novel type tale. If you don't like that sort of thing, well, you know the gist. 

But what I will say is that the story and the plot won't just be between Sirius and my OFC. It won't be mushy lovey dovey sort of stuff, in fact, just the opposite.

I'm writing this story specifically for all of you who love Sirius Black and really really want to read more of him, and really really miss him, like I do. But perhaps, my main propulsion for starting it was my cousin, who really wanted to read a romance with Sirius as the protagonist, whom she absolutely adores.

Essentially, this story will be a series, which will be divided in to two parts. The first part, which I'm estimating will be somewhere between ten to twenty chapters, will be set in 1981, a couple of months before Voldemort's death.

Also, I'm rating this story M (in other words, R) because of some iffy chapters. However, I do not believe Part One of the story will be M, so it's safe to read it for now. If there is a chapter that I think is iffy, I will inform you beforehand.

Without further engagement I present to you _Delaying the Heart._

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Prologue 

_September__2nd_ _1981_

Dumbledore had never been able to produce an actual location for the Order of the Phoenix headquarters. Mostly because it would have taken a long time to assemble all the wards that would prevent it from getting discovered, but also because no previous location had ever been safe enough. It was agreed upon by all the Order members that the past locations had been a bit of a joke, ranging from the bizarre to the truly disgusting.

The first was unanimously voted as Hogwarts. This was alright for the summer holidays, but when school started up again there would no doubt be questions among the students as to why strange people could be seen walking in and out of Hogwarts at all hours of the day and night, when, to their knowledge, it wasn't actually allowed.

Dumbledore came up with a solution six weeks into the summer holidays. Most Order members hadn't particularly fancied this new location of Dumbledore's, which had been in a small abandoned muggle business office on the offside of a public loo. The Order members discovered why the office was abandoned one second upon arriving there, and they were often inclined to complain on the constant smell of sewage permeating the area.

The third location had been in the back of a large four-tonner truck that Dumbledore had "borrowed" from a muggle mechanic shop. With the help of some blind eyes, a couple of exchanged palms, and the added bonus of a few memory charms, it made for a very cold and very cramped location, even with the additional enlargement spells Dumbledore had placed. There had been a lot of grumbling from the Order members about the lack of furniture and poor lighting, but Dumbledore reminded them, in the nicest possible way, that there were more important things to be grumbling about.

The fourth and final location was a cosy one-story cottage Dumbledore had actually purchased from a bunch of muggles out in the country. Everyone decided it was, by far, the most hospitable location. It even had a little white picket fence bordering the property along with the hundreds of roses the previous owner's wife apparently had an obsession for.

But one good thing did come from this all; everyone agreed that the constant changing of locations would safeguard against the enemy ever finding them.

The cottage in question was now in uproar.

Or, to be more specific, the cottage's living room was now in uproar, because this was where all the Order members were gathered. Most were sitting on squishy armchairs that boasted quite a large number of pale frills (they had always known the headmaster was a bit nutty). Others were perched on dining chairs, pouffes, beanbags, and, in the case of Dumbledore, a large red chintz wingchair that the headmaster himself had transfigured just that morning.

Dumbledore was sitting in the chair with fingers threaded, looking the part of the benevolent old wizard that he was known for. He had decided to wear a spectacular midnight blue creation this day, which hosted several large gold stars and quite a number of smaller silver ones that would twinkle in and out on occasion, playfully changing their positions on his robes, making completely new patterns. Right now they were forming to spell the word SOCKS. Later they will change again into something else that Dumbledore likes, but right now they will stay as they are.

Dumbledore was unaware of this. Or more to the point, he was aware that his robes had a mind of their own, but he wasn't aware that they were having a mind of their own right at this very moment, or that they were spelling out his favourite item of clothing. He was too engaged in what was happening in front of him to notice anything that was happening _on_ him. Besides, what was happening in front of him was much more attention-getting right now. In fact, no member of the Order had even noticed Dumbledore's unconventional robes, as they were too preoccupied with what was taking place as well.

Angry exclamations were filtering through the room. They had been filtering ever since five minutes ago when Dumbledore had confessed about a most unfortunate circumstance.

Mutterings of "It's so unfair," and "Not now, by Merlin!" were distinguishable from the ruckus. Dumbledore raised his hands, imploring silence, of which he got. No matter the situation, the headmaster always commanded respect, bordering on reverence.

"Please calm down. The situation is not that adverse."

"Not that adverse?" Emmeline Vance spoke out, leaning forward a little awkwardly from her beanbag. "You must be joking Dumbledore? Without gold the Order doesn't exist! Who'll counteract You-Know-Who if where not there? Certainly not the ministry fools!"

There was a whisper of agreement among those present.

Dumbledore sighed, looking more tired than he ever had in the passed few months. It was true what they said about the Ministry, of course, otherwise he never would have founded the Order. But Dumbledore was a firm believer in hope. And if there were people willing to do the right thing for the right cause, there was always hope. It might have been a little hard to find in these dark times, but it was there. The Order was proof of that.

"We still have enough left to last the month," said Dumbledore, determined not to show how tired he really felt. "We will come up with something before then I'm sure. But I cannot continue funding this organization on my own. What we really need is a sponsor. Preferably one who will offer us all their support; one we do not have to lie to under falsified circumstances. My Muggle Awareness Fund only gets so many donations a month. I cannot continue to provide when the public does not."

Everyone glanced at each other, feeling a bit more than guilty that they had heaped their comments on Dumbledore. It wasn't his fault that the Muggle Awareness Fund wasn't prospering. Not many witches and wizards particularly cared about muggle doings.

Dumbledore watched the Order converse for a few seconds, let them ponder his words. He allowed his eyes to flick unobtrusively over the group of twenty or so witches and wizards. Inevitably, they first landed on Hagrid, who was squished in a particularly large and fluffy beanbag. He was speaking animatedly with Aberforth, most likely about something that had nothing to do with the situation at hand. Dumbledore wasn't angry or worried. He had already spoken to his brother and Hagrid a few days before about the financial problem that had not so suddenly struck the Order. He had asked for their advice in what to do to help the situation along, and they'd had some suggestions, but Dumbledore had not thought they would do the trick.

For instance, Hagrid's idea of breeding chimaeras at the edge of the Forbidden Forest then selling the chimaeras to those who were interested in their magical properties (Potion Masters, Herbologists, Apothecaries, and so on) would certainly break some laws in The Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Legislation Agreement. And Aberforth's suggestion of setting up a cheese curdling business would not have brought that much money in, despite Aberforth's assurance that Eloise, his faithful goat, would have plenty of milk in store.

No, no matter how helpful their suggestions, they just weren't practical, which was one of the reasons why Dumbledore decided to finally tell the rest of the Order and see what they made of it.

But watching the Order now, letting his eyes rest on the group of friends sitting together on assorted beanbags and pouffes, appearing just that much distanced from the rest, Dumbledore allowed his to mind trail to the realm of possibilities.

This group of friends were tight knit in the true sense of the term. They had known each other since Hogwarts, and still remained friends even now. They had one goal in life currently, as had most of the Order — to eliminate the darkest Lord ever to enter the wizarding world. They each had their own reasons for doing so, whether it be friendship, inevitability, spite, revenge, goodness, and a number of other things. Yes, they were exceptional, and Dumbledore couldn't be prouder of them, even though, at times, he wished they'd never had to see so much violence and pain in their youth. Dumbledore had always been a firm believer in _living out your life to the fullest_, especially when you were young. He sighed inwardly; these five would not be getting that.

The realm of possibilities Dumbledore had earlier entertained now became quite the reality in his old, wizened mind, particularly as he let his gaze rest on young Sirius Black. He wasn't speaking at all, wasn't contributing to the discussions, just staring pensively at a spot on the carpet below him.

The young Black, Dumbledore knew, would have enough money to fund the Order, but he was estranged from his family, hated them in fact, and Dumbledore would no sooner ask him to end that estrangement than jump of a cliff. Unless of course, he decided himself . . . Yes, it just might work.

"I am open to suggestions."

The conversations promptly came to a halt.

"I imagine that you've had quite the length of time suitable to think up some useful ideas for our dilemma," Dumbledore prodded when no one said anything.

Dedalus Diggle stood up from a flowery pink armchair. He straightened his top hat a bit before beginning. "Frank and I, well we were thinking . . . What about setting up another organization? One that cares for sick children perhaps?"

Alastor Moody, sitting opposite the short wizard, shook his head and humped as words of agreement filled the room from nearly everyone else.

Dumbledore spoke quickly before Alastor had a chance to open his mouth and say something upsetting. "That will not work, Dedalus. It needs to be something obscure, otherwise the eyes of the public will fall on us. They will start to wonder why their money hasn't gone to the unfortunate children. There will be questions, and we will not have the answers. Besides, we have St Mungo's for that very thing."

Sighs of disappointment accompanied that statement. Dedalus sat down awkwardly, took his hat off, and started fiddling with it.

"As I said before," Dumbledore continued, glancing discreetly at the group of young people to his left, "we need a sponsor. If you know of anyone responding to our cause, please say so now."

There was silence.

Dumbledore knew everyone was racking their memories on behalf of his request at this moment, and he loved them for that. He knew they were thinking that the Ministry and those that worked under it were too corrupted, too infiltrated by various characters of the more odious kind. They knew that anyone with a vault full of money was either a pureblood Death Eater, or well on his way to becoming one. James Potter was the exception of course, but the problem was that he did not have nearly as much money as certain other pureblood families. Like the Black's for instance.

As soon as Dumbledore had the thought, the silence was broken by a low voice.

"I'll do it."

Inwardly the headmaster beamed, (in fact he had an urge to chuckle at the absurdness of the situation, even though he had no doubt that the boy had seen right through his act) but outwardly he simply smiled at Sirius, acknowledging the sacrificial young man with a respectful incline of his head. "Thank you my boy," he told him.

"Well," James Potter said, looking entirely shocked as he stared at his best friend. "That's settled then."

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A/N: The prologue is naturally going to be shorter than the rest of the chapters. So no need to worry.

Tell me what you think.

P.S. Have a poke at my other stories, which aren't yet completed, (but they will be, seeing as I'm going to be alternating between writing them and this one) but I think they're worth it at least.


	2. Pride Forgotten, Promises Remembered

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, it belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. I write it purely for the sake of my own and others enjoyment. A/N: Thanks to those people who took the time to review.

I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, I had fun writing it.

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**Chapter One: Pride Forgotten, Promises Remembered. **

"Do you think I should hang myself? Purely for the sake of my own sanity, of course. Or perhaps I should jump off a cliff? It's less suspicious that way, you know. Or better yet, I should fall off my broom while it's a hundred feet in the air. No one can dispute _that_ as a suicide. They'd simply say 'Dash it all, the wind caught the lad upside and down! He couldn't stand a chance!' Or better still —"

"Would you shut up, Sirius! Please. Please. I'm begging you. I'd go down on my hands and knees but I still have my dignity. Never mind that you've misplaced yours."

Sirius groaned, a little pathetically, and raked a hand through his already dishevelled hair. The appearance of his hair indicated that he might have performed this gesture quite a few times during the course of the day. The Firewhiskey bottle held snugly in his left hand, which was clenched against his chest, certainly helped to further along the image of a man who simply had nothing to loose anymore — or a man who was feeling a little self-hatred.

Self-hatred was putting it mildly.

Sirius was, in fact, furious; at himself more so than Dumbledore, the sneaky old coot. Sirius hadn't given the matter much thought when he'd piped up like an eagre kid in an ice-cream shop, saying those three little words that would condemn his thickly layered pride to all hell.

"I'll do it."

_Oh will I ever do it, Professor Dumbledore! I'm really, truly, spectacularly, blubberingly keen to. I'll visit my horrid mother and beg her to relinquish my vault, shall I? Then I'll ignore it while she spits in my face and tells me I'm a worthless muggle-worshipper. _

_You idiot_!

Or perhaps he _had_ given the matter a lot of thought, and that was why he was so furious. He faintly recalled staring at the carpet and pondering . . . but he wasn't quite sure. His brains were currently sizzling in very potent alcohol after all, so he couldn't be faulted for not entirely remembering.

And, what had he been pondering about?

But never mind that, there was still nothing for the situation at hand. It was done and he couldn't back out now. Everyone was counting on him, weren't they? Counting on Sirius Black to roll in the gold.

After the Order meeting the previous day Sirius had wasted no time in apparating to the nearest muggle pub and proceeding to get thoroughly foxed. He'd woken up the next morning in an unfamiliar room with a strange smelling bint lying draped over him, and having absolutely no clue as to how he ended up there.

After that he'd gone straight to his home and given himself a hard scrub down and, just to be sure, he performed a cleansing charm as well. Then he'd hopped on his motorbike and flew straight to James's.

Where he was now.

Drinking.

Again.

He felt rather pathetic actually.

"Sorry James," he told his best friend, raking his hair once more. "I just . . . I feel so helpless." He leaned forward from the sofa he was sitting on and buried his face into his hands. "Urgh, I don't know what I'm doing! I shouldn't have said anything. I hate her! I _hate_ her, Prongs!"

"I know," said James quietly.

"Yeah, I know you do," said Sirius thankfully, lifting his head to pin James with a grateful look. "I think that's part of the reason why I came here. I just wish I hadn't done . . . but at the same time I feel . . . I don't know if 'good' is the right word but, content? I feel content."

"Because you know you did the right thing." James reached over and pulled the bottle out of Sirius's hand. "You sacrificed your own, 'sanity'—" James threw him a wink "— as you called it, for the wellbeing of others' lives. For the wellbeing of our world. You're quite the hero now Padfoot."

Sirius sputtered for a moment, then groaned. "Merlin, please no!"

James chuckled and threw back the whiskey; waited until it had burned his throat, before gasping, "That's hit it! I'm putting this away." He waved his wand over the bottle and it disappeared. "Don't know how you can drink the stuff at all, let alone daily."

"I don't drink it daily," Sirius protested half-heartedly, "only recently have I been doing that. It's this stupid war! It's everything, really."

James, sensing his friend was going on the decline again, decided to change the subject to a not precisely better one, but one that required Sirius' diligent sense of duty to do the right thing, which he never completely abandoned, no matter if he was feeling pathetic or not.

"When are you going to see her?"

Sirius' eyes, which had been staring curiously at his shoes, rolled up to meet James'.

"Some time tomorrow," he answered, and James breathed a sigh of relief. At least Sirius had already thought about it, which meant he wasn't too far gone in his brooding.

"I'll help," was all he said.

Sirius' lip curved slightly at the corner. "I wasn't going to ask."

James shook his head, fighting a smile of his own. "You know you never have to, Sirius."

THE NEXT DAY Sirius found himself in front of his dreaded childhood home; a home he'd sworn never to see or smell or step foot in again. Yet here he was, and at his own accord no doubt. That was what made him so angry. That was what made him feel so out of control about it all. He hated feeling out of control. And this soon-to-be situation with his mother was out of his control. It brought up feelings he'd long ago buried. Feelings of being inadequate. Feelings of not living up to the decrees of her Royal Purebloodedness. Having to live with the disgust of his relatives because he was a Gryffindor!

Merlin, he would give anything to take back those three little words. But at the same time, and after talking with James, he was glad he'd said them. If his mother somehow agreed to let him access one of the Black vaults then he'd be using the gold against the Death Eaters. Against the very symbol of what his mother and relatives conformed to.

Yes, he supposed there was something beneficial about this situation after all; at least beneficial to his own state of mind.

Now, Sirius took a couple of deep breaths before he hit the doorknocker on Number 12 Grimmauld Place's elaborately designed front door, then settled on arranging his face in what he hoped was an expression of boredom, nonchalance, and a your-wasting-my-time-let's-get-on-with-it-already attitude, that he was sure he'd perfected. He should have perfected it at any rate. He'd practised in front of the mirror long enough.

Sirius knew that to impress his mother his dress, speech, and manner all had to be the epitome of a pureblood upbringing in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. In other words he had to act like the perfect aristocrat, not forgetting, of course, to make a complete arse of himself in the process.

_How many times will I have to kiss her backside until she agrees?_ Not more than once, Sirius assured himself, hastily. He still had some pride left after all. Sirius snorted. _Kiss her backside _indeed That wasn't an image he needed at this point.

Sirius froze as the door creaked open, rendering his composure for a second, before he remembered his role and quickly arranged it to the façade of perpetual boredom and arrogance. He might even add a yawn or two in there as the meeting went on. Show off the huge fake diamond ring that he'd bought at a muggle shop specifically for this occasion. Just to keep up appearances and all that rot. It was sure to impress his mother.

James and Sirius had worked out what to say to Mrs Black the day before in order to procure her money, even though it was rightfully Sirius's. He would play the part of an arrogant aristocrat that already had enough gold to melt, but nevertheless he was also looking into increasing his prospects, perhaps dabbling in some stocks or the like, in which he needed his rightful gold from the Black Vault to invest in, preferably his father, Orion Black's. He would act as if he didn't really need the money, but that both he and his mother would greatly benefit from the profits if she agreed.

And to explain his sudden about-face in attitude? Why, he was a pureblood, it just took him so long to realise it. And as an added bonus he would mention his imaginary muggleborn friend George betraying his friendship and trust by having a secret liaison with his girlfriend, and that he'd come to the conclusion that George had betrayed him out of jealousy of his pureblood status, and that all mudbloods were like that, and that he _should_ have seen it before hand. He would also mention, in brief, that he'd cut all ties from the Potters and wasn't ever planning on spending time with his muggleloving ex-best friend James, and his mudblood wife and son.

_Yes, that ought to do it. Lay it on thick, that's the way she likes it._

The front door of number 12 Grimmauld Place now opened to reveal a crotchety old house elf sporting what looked like woodcarvings etched into its skin. In fact it was its skin, and the woodcarvings were its wrinkles. It was wearing a soiled loincloth that probably would have been more at home in the bin than around the house elf's hips, hanging so precariously lowly that Sirius was certain it would slip down and reveal a most unwelcome sight.

Sirius forced his face into a painful half smile, half grimace.

"Hello Kreacher. Is my mother around? I have something I wish to discuss with her."

Kreacher glared up at him with contempt. "What does the traitor son want with mistress? He has long left the Black house. What is he doing here now? Kreacher thinks he is nosing around."

Sirius _almost_ lost his temper.

"Just fetch her, will you? That is an order."

He un-gritted his teeth as he followed Kreacher into the house, dimly aware of the smell of mustiness invading the air. It seemed to Sirius as if the windows had not been opened since the day he'd left.

"I'll wait for your mistress in Father's office," Sirius told the house elf, then walked up the stairs to the second floor where is father's office was located. He opened the door and stepped in.

It was a large office tastefully decorated in rich mahogany hues that impersonated the desk and the bookshelf that held the brilliant display of Dark Arts tomes Death Eaters would die to get hold of. It, too, was musty. But there was still a faint scent of pipe smoke lingering in the air.

Suddenly, and quite against his will, Sirius was transported into a distant memory . . .

Of himself when he was very small, sitting quietly beside his father and brother on the velvet embroidered sofa, just sitting together in the stillness of the office, the woodsy scent of pipe smoke lazily drifting through the room and out the window, and the crackle of the fire; the crackle of the Daily Prophet as his father turned the pages with his long, elegant fingers. . .

Sirius shook his head. He had no business remembering that. His father had hated him as soon as he'd become a Gryffindor, and there were no more lazy, pipe smoke days after that.

Sirius walked to his father's desk and leaned his cane, an exact replica of Lucius Malfoy's, on it. In fact, Sirius had borrowed it from him one time when they had both been at The Leaky Cauldron. Malfoy had been ordering a drink or some such and James had dared Sirius to swipe it while he wasn't looking. Sirius had agreed at once. He hated his cousin-by-marriage even more than Narcissa because Sirius knew he was a Death Eater.

It turned out the cane had housed Malfoy's wand, and both Sirius and James had been delighted they had robbed him of it. Later they had destroyed the wand, transfiguring the broken pieces into a bouquet of flowers which Lily had kept on the kitchen windowsill until they had wilted away.

Sitting down on the plump chair behind the desk, Sirius put his feet up on the table and crossed his legs at the ankles, looking relaxed, confidant, and most importantly, intimidating. Too bad he didn't feel that way. How he hated Grimmauld place and its pureblood ideals. The sooner he finished his business the better.

On second thought, perhaps he should keep hold of the cane. He knew the image he presented would be even more intimidating that way. He reached over and palmed the slick piece of wood in his hands, grimacing at the grotesque serpent visage on the handle. He shrugged, looked at his crossed legs, and stuck the end of the cane into his left boot, where he started moving it around. This, he knew, served two purposes. One, it made him look cooly lazy, as though he was simply bored and had come here to garner some much needed entertainment; and two, it made a perfect itch scratcher.

The door opened just then and Sirius looked up quickly, making sure to mask his features in lines of arrogance and detachment.

In walked his mother.

Or more precisely, in _strode_ his mother.

She had been a beautiful woman in her youth. Now in her late-forties she was only marginally handsome.

_Probably from all the stress I put her through._ Sirius grinned at his thoughts.

Her hair was still as black as his own, but her eyes were a very pale blue colour that reminded Sirius of cold ice. They were nothing at all like his own greyish ebony eyes, which had been likened to rich, dark chocolate by many of his female acquaintances.

They hadn't seen each other for six years, and they now, without realising it, both took the time to run sneering gazes over the other.

Sirius was seeing, as he always had, a wicked old hag with expensively spectacular velvet black robes that hung on a briskly framed body, which had always been pale, unlike his own. Well, considering she hardly left the house . . .

Finally, after running a cold hard gaze over her, now, only son, his mother spoke. "So it's you is it?"

Sirius forced himself not to grit his teeth. It wouldn't do to let his mother think she had one over him, or that her barb had struck home. She had always spoken to him as though he were a welcome mat people wiped their muddy shoes on.

Instead, all he said was, "Yes."

She squinted at him once more, her eyes roving his figure from top to bottom. "You look different."

Sirius _almost_ grinned. "I've always looked this way madam. You just haven't noticed before."

He watched his mother's back stiffen with anger, but her face showed something else. What could it be? Admiration? Approval? He almost did grin then, in triumph.

"What do you want?" she snapped sharply.

"Succinct as always, Mother. I'll be the same. I want access to Father's vault. I am fully prepared to deal with the back payments and other such expenses. All I need you to do is sign this form."

He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out an official looking parchment. He handed it to her and watched her peruse it for a few seconds. Sirius felt both anger and disappointment when she looked up at him with a smirk on her face. _This can't be good_.

"So you want money do you, muggle lover?" She laughed softly, a sound that grated down Sirius's spine. "Didn't think about the gold when you ran away from home did you, traitor child?"

From his mother's viewpoint Sirius was the modicum of calm, but inside his blood was boiling. He willed himself to cool down. "I'm fully prepared —" he began.

"And don't give me some cock and bull story about changing your ways!" she interrupted, glaring at him.

Sirius almost gaped.

"I know you too well, child of my flesh," she continued. "I know that meddlesome mudblood-lover Dumbledore has some sort of group working against the Dark Lord. Most likely he's short of gold and he's asked you to supply it!"

Sirius did gape now, his composure completely obliterated. _Of course._ This was his mother after all and he had underestimated her entirely.

"Well," she now breathed, looking manically excited, "you may inform him that the Black gold comes with a price."

Sirius forced himself not to gape a second time. His mother noticed, prompting a satisfied smirk at his lack of composure.

"Are you telling me you're willing to part with all the rights that entails you access to Orion Black's vault, and fully handing over that entailment to me?" He didn't quite manage to keep the disbelief from his voice.

His mother laughed harshly, a short, guttural sound, barely lasting a second. "Yes . . . For a price."

Sirius stiffened, staring apprehensively at his mother. "What price?" His voice was low, soft and filled with underlying menace.

His mother cackled, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "You'll have to sacrifice your_self_, son of mine, if you want that money."

Sirius stood up so fast, his father's plump, cushiony chair, followed by Malfoy's cane, toppled to the floor, but he was uncaring.

"What?" He was almost on the point of shouting. Horrible images of being forced to participate in muggle-hunting with Bella filtered through his head. How he hated his mother. Damn her!

"You heard me perfectly well. You'll have to sacrifice yourself. But you need not worry, blood traitor, it is only the metaphysical sacrifice I speak of, the sacrifice of your . . . way of life, if you will. And you'll need to curb that hot-headedness of yours, and work on your patience. You will need it in the near future."

Sirius was beyond confused now, though still angry. _What was she getting at?_

"Just what exactly do you mean you old hag?" He spoke through a clenched jaw, completely forgetting his original plan to maintain his composure.

His mother didn't seem to notice. Instead she smirked, a glint of triumph evident in her eyes. "You might like mudbloods my son, might even have one as a lover right now. And nothing is going to give me as much pleasure as saying this to you. If you want the gold, you will forget about her. If you want the gold you will marry a pureblood witch. If you want the gold you will marry a pureblood witch of _my_ choosing!"

His mother started cackling insanely with glee, not noting Sirius' shocked expression and the angry breaths releasing a rapid tattoo from his mouth.

"And," she added and paused to savour the moment, paused to savour her son's expression of rapid disbelief. "You will marry her before the month is up. I don't so much care about the Dark Lord or where the money goes. But I will have my first grandchild and heir to the Black fortune a pureblood. The Black line _will _continue untainted, and _you_ will be responsible for that, my son."

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The parlour room was a little stuffy that day, despite the fact of it being autumn, and despite the fact that the house elves had put refreshing charms in every room of the house. Tatienne and Edmond Le Creux usually dallied there after supper to drink a sweet tea or read an interesting book. But today they had decided to abstain from visiting the room and instead headed to the cool greenhouse porches at the back end of their estate. There they could bask in the sweet scent of honeysuckle and wild rose flowers while watching the fireflies dart in and out of the bushes.

It seemed the perfect setting for a romantic liaison.

It was a pity Edmond and Tatienne hardly found anything romantic about each other. Love had never entered their marriage, most likely because it had been an arranged one. But, they could tolerate each other, were even friends to the point of being not so polite, and they both wanted the best for their only child and daughter, no matter the case.

They were purebloods of course, with a strong aversion to anything muggle related. Oh they could tolerate them if they had to, but since they weren't obliged to, they didn't disguise their contempt. They would even wrinkle their noses offensively if ever introduced to a muggleborn. But unlike other purebloods with money and class, Mr and Mrs Le Creux never had any desire to actually _harm_, or Merlin forbid _kill_ any muggles or muggleborns. No, they were far too moral for that. But they did dislike them, which was why they found their daughter's acquaintance with a muggleborn girl difficult to understand. They had raised her to find them objectionable, of course, but she was at times a wilful girl, so what could they do but give in?

The porch was a peaceful place, perfect for discussing the day's happenings and whatnot. Edmond decided to bring up the topic of the morning's post and the tiny bit of panic it had caused them to feel. Both of them had been shocked and not a little dismayed to see the official Black family crest on the letter a haughty eagle owl had delivered at the breakfast table. They hadn't heard from the Black family in a little over seventeen years, in fact just when their daughter was born, and they knew what the letter would say at once without opening it.

It was a summons. A summons to honour the betrothal contract issued at Antoinette's birth to one Sirius Black.

This saddened them. Not because of the impending marriage, since they both thought the match to be a good one, but because it was too soon. They had hoped for a few more years with their daughter yet, a chance to properly educate her in the ways of the world. Perhaps to get rid of her existing desire to find paid work. As if women of class actually _worked_? The scandal that would cause. But now they couldn't even do that. And Merlin help them if the soon-to-be dowager Mrs Black found out, about that or the muggleborn girl their daughter was friendly with.

"Shall we tell her now Edmond?" Tatienne asked her husband. She watched him shake his attractive golden head.

"Non. We will not. We will wait until the morning. We will break it to her gently. She will understand."

"Oui, she will. She has been aware of this betrothal since she was a small child. It should not be that great of a shock to her. Only the fact that it is right now might surprise her a little." Tatienne admitted, worrying her bottom lip with little white teeth.

"Oui." Edmond agreed. Though, he too, looked worried.

"Do you think she will like it in England? I hear it can get very cold there."

"I hear it can get very dirty there as well," Edmond responded with a slight disgusted grimace. "I heard Hogwarts is nothing like Beaubatons."

"But surely the Black house will not be like that!" Tatienne exclaimed, horrified by the thought of her precious Antoinette surrounded by dirt.

"Most of the old manors and castles in England and Scotland usually are," Edmond reminded his wife with a resigned tone and a sombre expression. "But the Blacks are revered as a family, and they have a lot of gold. I'm sure the house in which they live is not in the least impoverished. Perhaps a little out of date, but clean. And they are sure to have a house elf or two."

"You are quite right Edmond. I shouldn't panic so. It is just that I will miss her. She is so young. And Sirius Black, he is at the most twenty-two. That is five years apart."

"I'm seven years older than you."

"But that is different. I was older, more mature than Toni when we married. And I didn't have delusions of employment in my head to keep me occupied. At least I wanted to get out of my home. I seriously doubt Toni does."

"You are right there," Edmond conceded. "But she knows her duty, she will accept. Perhaps with a bit of complaint, but in the end she will be resigned to her fate and go willingly to England to meet her fiancé."

"When did the letter say for them to meet?" Tatienne glanced over her husband's arm as he pulled out the parchment from out of his robes.

"In two weeks there is some sort of conference or party, I'm not certain which, for all the ministry delegates from around Europe. It will be held at the British Ministry for Magic this year. We are to meet them there."

"Two weeks?" Tatienne couldn't bare the thought.

"Oui, but they will not be married until two more weeks after that, so we have a whole month with her."

Tatienne's eyes turned glassy. "But I wanted more time with our daughter."

Edmond patted her knee reassuringly. "Do not worry mes on font, we will spend as much time with her now as possible. Besides, we shall see her again even after she has wed. Sirius Black could not be so cruel as to disallow that," he added, then both he and Tatienne grimaced.

_Perhaps that was not true at all_, they both thought, exchanging disquieting looks. _If Sirius Black was anything like his mother . . ._

Tatienne and Edmond turned to watch the night, conscious of the fact that things would never be the same again.

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What do you think?

Review Please.


	3. Obligation

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, it belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. I write it purely for the sake of my own and others enjoyment.

A/N: There is just a little bit of innuendo in this chapter, as well as a hint of something that James thinks. I don't think it's bordering on M, it's still in the T zone. But this was just to let you know.

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**Chapter Two: Obligation**

"Apparently the Le Creuxs are the crème de la crème of French wizarding aristocracy. You'd think the old hag would at least choose someone a little closer to home," Sirius grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning stiffly against the chair at his back. "Well at least there's one good thing about the situation . . ." Sirius paused, cocking his head to the side. To the two others sitting around the table he appeared to be thinking rather a lot. "No," he drawled eventually. "No I can't think of anything beneficial about this situation at all. My life is going to be sacrificed; my mental wellbeing is going to be sacrificed, and my co —"

"That's enough!" Lily interjected hastily, stopping Sirius from finishing that alarming word.

He blinked at her.

"Don't give me that kicked puppy look Sirius Black! And if you finish that sentence," she continued as Sirius opened his mouth, "I'm going to hex the subject matter off, if you know what I mean."

Sirius, along with his best friend, winced and shifted uncomfortably where they sat.

"That's harsh Lil's," said James, adjusting his glasses, which only partly hid the horror reflected in his eyes.

"Are you forgetting, James dear," said Lily in a sickly sweet voice, "that your son is present."

James took the time to glance over at Harry, positioned on a high chair, staring at them all curiously with his gorgeous emerald eyes. Looking at those eyes reminded James just how much he daren't disagree with his wife.

"Course," he mumbled, avoiding Sirius' gaze in favour of staring at his son's. "Don't know what I was thinking."

"What's this?" Sirius gasped, and James went pink, still determinedly looking away. "The James Potter, Hogwarts' Hex-a-lot, Quidditch Captain, Head of Transfiguration —"

"Alright Padfoot, you've made your point —"

"— is afraid of his little itty bitty wife?" Sirius finished in contrived disbelief.

"Itty bitty?" Lily repeated, sounding like she wasn't sure whether to be amused or angry. "I'll have you know that size has no conjecture on talent. And I can certainly throw a good hex, as James had the misfortune to get in the way of on our wedding night." Then she gasped and turned bright red. "I mean, I really didn't mean . . . Oh Sirius! Only you!" She glared at the man in question, who was doubled-up in delighted laughter.

James had bent over in the pretence of tying Harry's shoe lace in order to hide his blushing face. As it was, Harry was laughing along with Sirius and clapping his tiny hands, as most babies would when they were feeling entertained.

_Betrayed by my own flesh and blood,_ was James' brief thought before he straightened up again and hastily forked some roasted pumpkin and steak into his mouth, all the while not daring to look up at his best friend.

Sirius' laughter died down eventually and he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Neither James nor Lily could tell whether it was a real one, or whether it was a deliberate action only performed to commemorate the finishing touch to his laughter.

"Yes well," he said now. "I wouldn't be me, would I, if I don't manage to wangle out at least some embarrassing stories when I come over? Stories of James, I mean. But this one is really a kicker. Or it would be, if you would care to tell me the details . . ." he drawled.

Lily was mortified. "Not on your life!"

Sirius sighed sadly, mournfully. Again, neither James nor Lily could tell whether it was contrived or not, he was that good. "Alas, I must live with my insatiable curiosity. Which means I'll have to keep asking, and asking, and asking, until —"

"You won't this time!" Lily interrupted, finally fed up. "We weren't talking about James and I, we were talking about you. Or rather you were complaining, and we were listening."

Sirius _and_ James both sat up at this. They were frowning at her.

"That was harsh, Lils," James said again, and Sirius looked as though he had eaten something disagreeable.

Lily winced and stared apologetically at him. "I'm so sorry Sirius," she told him. "You know I didn't mean it."

When Sirius answered his voice was clipped. "I know, Lily."

She sighed, and placed her hands on either side of her plate. She had painted her nails a deep vermillion and the colour glared up at him, mocking his weakness; the weakness that said he simply could not contain himself, that he simply hated his life at the moment.

Lily saw, and her eyes became gentle. "I know how much you despise all this and I completely . . . well, I completely disregarded your feelings." Her eyes turned a little misty. "I'm just so worried about you! If you continue like this, you might sink into a depression —!"

"Calm down, Lily," her husband said gently. "We're all tense right now, and Sirius has more on his plate than most of us . . ."

"Yes," Sirius said, pushing back his chair and standing up. He tossed his hair away from his face with a small, elegant shake of his head. "And I, unlike most of us, have to eat everything on it." His eyes had turned dark velvet.

"Where are you going?" James said, following suit.

"Hogsmede," Sirius answered promptly. He turned and strolled toward the fireplace. "To get drunk out of my marbles," he threw back over his shoulder. Then he plucked a pinch of floo powder from the mantelpiece and threw it into the flames. He stepped in. "And hopefully, to forget how horrible my life is at the moment . . . and how horrible I'm acting," he added almost to himself before shouting "Hogs Head Inn!" and disappearing in an explosion of green flames.

The moment Sirius was gone James whirled on his wife, who grimaced at the glare her husband threw her.

"I know James; you don't have to tell me." She stood up and busied herself with spelling the dishes away to the sink.

"We'd almost gotten him to forget for a little while, and what do you do?"

"I know, I know!" she shrilled. "Honestly, you think I didn't regret it as soon as I had said it?"

James groaned and plonked down on the cushiony dinning chair. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "He's my best mate. My brother. I love him. I can't stand to see him . . . This isn't like Sirius at all. And," he looked up at Lily who gasped at the hopelessness in his eyes, "I'm worried about him. I'm worried he'll do something stupid. I'm worried he'll fly that stupid motorbike of his while he's drunk one of these days and veer off into a tree or something. But I'm more worried he won't do it by accident."

Lily squeaked. "You can't mean that he'd . . . ?" she couldn't finish the terrifying thought. She gestured with her hand instead.

"Can't I? I really don't know. With the way he's acting . . ."

"He wouldn't, James." Lily moved to the highchair to lift Harry, who'd fallen asleep sometime in the bustle. She cuddled him gently against her shoulder. "He's just feeling a little . . . down, at the moment. He hates being forced to do things he doesn't want to do."

James lifted a brow. "Don't we all?"

"Yes but, Sirius takes it to the extreme. You, better than anyone, know what his childhood was like. And when it's his mother ordering . . . well you really can't blame him, can you? It's doubly worse. He can't get out of it, that's the horrible thing. He can't let the Order disintegrate. He can't let everyone down."

"He's letting himself down," James muttered. He stood up. "Give me Harry. I'll put him to bed."

"Alright."

Once Harry was held snugly against his chest he looked down at his wife. She was almost a head shorter than he was, so she had to tilt her head to gaze up at him. Her red hair, so long and wavy, swung a little with the action. He loved her hair. So wonderfully rich and smelling of pomegranates, and so full of life, just like her. He loved burying his nose in it and inhaling all those scents when they made love. It never failed to stir him. He adored fanning it out on their pillows. He adored that his limbs became entangled in it when they got a little too vigorous. "I want you tonight. I need you tonight," he whispered, and watched as she caught her breath. A pretty flush stained her cheeks.

"You want me every night."

"And every morning. And every afternoon. And —"

"I'll wait for you."

"I'm putting Harry to bed now."

She nodded, her eyes dropping down to his lips. "Good."

He groaned and leaned down to steal a quick kiss, which quickly became a long kiss. He felt a stirring way down below and gradually lessened the intensity. There was plenty of time for that later. When they were brought back from the ferociousness of it all, he found that Lily was nibbling lightly on his bottom lip. At last she sighed and looked up at him.

"I'm going upstairs."

"Mm–hmm."

"Make sure to charm that little toy Snitch of his so that it flutters above his cot, in case he wakes up during the night."

"Will do."

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's temple, looked up, threw him a stare that made him smirk wickedly, and sauntered out of the room. James leered at her back, particularly the lower part, until she disappeared around a corner.

He glanced down at his baby, curled up asleep in his arms. Gently, his lips skimmed over the downy black hair.

"I am one lucky bloke, Harry. I just hope your Godfather can have the same with his new fiancée."

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Antoinette Jacqueline Le Creux – or Toni as her loved ones were fond of calling her – was in good spirits this morning. Having absolutely no idea of her imminent marriage, or that it would take place in no less than four weeks; she was getting ready to make some serious travel plans. She was seventeen after all, a matured witch just out of school. It seemed the right thing to do when one graduated. The only problem was that she really didn't know where to go. And not to mention, she had yet to inform her parents about her decision. They would not be pleased.

She looked down at her newest little love, Adele. She had discovered her just that morning, a slight weight resting across her chest. She had opened her eyes to find the colour of the darkest sapphire staring back at her, endorsed with a pure white mane and adorable little pink nose. She'd fallen immediately in love and spent the rest of the next half hour before breakfast cuddling the kitten under the bedcovers.

She knew the presence of the kitten could be accounted to her parents. They had often bestowed such surprises on her when she had been small, but when she had reached puberty they had ceased surprising her, most likely thinking she grew bored of such gifts. But Antoinette never had. She adored them, especially this newest one.

But she had to wonder as to why they had given her Adele now. What was the reason? What was the motive? Surely they must want something of her. But for the life of her Antointette could not figure out what.

She shrugged slightly. There was no use wondering about it now, her parents would likely tell her only when they wanted to and not before.

Running her eyes over the form in the gild-framed mirror that was situated in the corner of her very extensive bedroom, Antoinette bit her lip. Not in disdain at her appearance, but in admiration. Despite what it might seem like to others, she was not a vain girl, but she did appreciate and recognise a pretty face when she saw it, and she wasn't stupid as to say that hers was not. What she did not like though, was the robe she had chosen to wear today. A black tasselled creation that her Great Aunt had procured from some out there shop that didn't even bear describing. Crow feathers were what came to mind when one looked at this creation. Crow feathers that stuck in every direction, sometimes even fluttering up to tickle her noise.

She shuddered.

There was no backing out, though. Her Great Aunt, Helena, was most likely downstairs at this very moment — as Antoinette and her parents had been informed she would be in a letter that had arrived last night by way of a, if one would dare to believe, crow — and would be pleased to see her niece adorned in the very clothes which she had bought for her; the clothes that were at least one hundred years out of fashion. Helena herself was one hundred and sixteen years old, and getting progressively older. Antoinette understood that for the very old it was hard to let go of the past sometimes, but really, this was taking it to the extreme, surely?

Sighing slightly, and making sure that no hair was out of place, she kissed Adele on her soft head and walked out of the room. Making her way downstairs she pondered on Helena. She had not seen her Great Aunt in seven years and to say she had been surprised to receive that crow of hers last night was an understatement. Helena only ever requested to come over when some new happening was about to take place. The last time was when Antoinette herself had received her acceptance letter from Beaubatons. Helena had thought that a worthy thing to celebrate and she had shown up in their fireplace with a house elf tightly clutching her skirts and a bottle of the finest two hundred year old French wine in hand.

At last coming to the end of the curving staircase Antoinette entered the drawing room, passing under the portrait of herself and her family that was painted seventeen years ago, and stepped into the conjoining breakfast parlour. She met Lime, one of the family house elves, standing diligently by the entrance, balancing a large buttress of buttered scones on a silver platter. She plucked a couple from the top before turning, and allowing her gaze to rest on the occupants in the room.

Helena, withered and spectacularly ancient, sat between her parents like an opposing piece on a chess board. She was cloaked all in black, as usual, and atop her head there rested an enormous black swan. Dead of course, but stuffed, and placed there to represent the family crest, which was of two black swans with their necks coiled together. Helena condoned pure blood and family pride above all things.

Antoinette smiled warmly in greeting and went to kiss first Helena (as protocol and courtesy demanded) then her parents on both cheeks, before placing herself to sit opposite them.

"Good morning," she greeted.

"Humph!" said Helena, and Antoinette felt it was only proper that she ask what was bothering her.

"You never thanked me for that robe you are now wearing. Not by letter or floo did you think to express your gratitude. I should ask for it back. It should not belong to an ungrateful specimen such as you. I know plenty of girls who would be delighted to claim it!"

Hearing that, Antoinette wished that she'd never asked. "I am sorry, Aunt Helena. I assumed you had received that owl I sent seven years ago when she did not come back after a few days. Perhaps she lost the letter?"

Helena grunted again, which meant she accepted that excuse, before shovelling some yogurt in her mouth.

Antoinette cleared her throat. "That reminds me, Maman, Papa. I cannot thank you enough for Adele. She's lovely."

Her mother inclined her head and smiled, a little shakily? "Your welcome, Antoinette."

Edmond set down the coffee cup he had been drinking onto its saucer so that a small _clink_ sounded, and drew a deep breath. His blue gaze pierced Antoinette where she sat. There was something very wrong happening here, she was sure.

"There was a reason we purchased her for you, dearest," her father admitted.

Antoinette did not mince her words. "I figured that already, Papa. After all, you haven't given me such gifts since I was a little girl." She stared at him for a full ten seconds before spreading blueberry jam on her scones.

This action caused her not to notice the glances Tatienne and Edmond exchanged.

As it was, Helena had her say first. "Are you going to tell her, Edmond?" she asked her nephew. "I, for one, find this tension very dull and not at all amusing. I should like to go home to my château as soon as possible. A bath awaits me there, and some amusements."

Antoinette carefully kept her emotions concealed behind an icy exterior, as she always did when she felt defensive. She did not even look up at her family, but kept her eyes on her hands, which were still busy spreading what now had to be the whole jar of blueberry jam. She had known there was something . . .

"Mon petite enfant."

Antoinette did look up now, at her father, who had been the one to address her. He called her "my little child" as a term of affection. But it wasn't a term she had often heard of late. In fact the last time he had called her that had been the first day of her magical schooling career when she had ridden the carriage to Beaubatons.

"Is something wrong, Papa?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral. She wasn't to know that her somewhat coolly arched eyebrow revealed what she felt on the inside.

"Well, Antoinette, it would depend on how you look at the situation. We will leave you to determine if you find it wrong or not."

She noticed the glances her parents exchanged, and the apprehensive looks on their faces. She became irritated. What on earth was going on? And more importantly, when exactly would they stop beating about the bush and tell her?

"Papa?" she prompted, glancing at her father's face.

Edmond gulped a few times. It looked like he was trying to get rid of a lump in his throat. "You're betrothal has come to light, daughter. In two weeks you will meet your fiancé in England and in a month's time you will marry."

Antoinette stared at her parents for a good minute, her eyes roving between their figures, but never really looking them in the eye. Then she stared at her Aunt, whom, by some surprising miracle, seemed to have fallen asleep. But that did not matter because she now knew why she was here, and why her parents had given her Adele this morning. She felt her heart sink into her stomach. She was afraid it just might rest there for a while, at least until she sorted all her thoughts out.

Well, she knew her parents were not joking, the looks on their faces, as well as the fact that she had never heard them tell a joke in her entire life confirmed that. Besides, they would have no cause to joke about something this big, something to do with her future. And the worst of it was she could not escape it, she knew that. She had resigned herself to the fact long ago. But she had not thought her betrothed would summon her so soon. She had just finished her education a few months ago. She had yet to see the world. But now she could not.

"What is my fiancé like?"

She hadn't even known she was going to ask that question. It had just slipped out, something to cover the dreadful silence with; something to mask her thoughts with.

"We do not know. But Sirius Black is rumoured to be very handsome," her father said, and Antoinette refrained from lifting a brow at him. He had spoken quickly, and sounded as if he had just made something up on the spot. Her mother's reaction, which looked towards her husband in surprise, confirmed that as well.

"He is not old then?" Antoinette asked, desperately praying that he wasn't.

"No, he is barely twenty-two himself. I do not know much about him. Except that his family is very wealthy — and of course he has all the prerequisite bloodlines."

She nodded, suddenly feeling numb.

"I accept what I must do." She barely said that without choking. As it was she felt a horrible tightness in her throat that she knew would not go away until she had time and space to let it out. But not here. Never here, in front of her parents and Aunt.

Her parents sighed in relief.

"May I be excused please?"

"Of course darling," was the answer, and Antoinette's mind had gone so blank that she wasn't sure who had said it.

Her mother leaned forward and kissed her cheek as she stood up. Antoinette offered both her parents a small, sad smile before gracefully walking out of the room. As soon as the parlour door shut behind her she broke into a run, heading outside to the gardens, anywhere but in the house that suddenly seemed so confining, that suddenly seemed so like a prison. She approached some large flowering shrubs; a garden bench was ingeniously concealed between their branches, and she collapsed on it in an undignified heap.

It took a while for her to realise that the wetness on her cheeks were her own tears and not a drizzle of rain as she had first assumed. She brushed them aside angrily with her palms. She would not let this defeat her. She would give this Sirius Black a chance to see what he was like. She would go to him in two weeks time. She would act the perfect fiancée of a pureblood wizard, the modicum of French womanhood and nobility. If he was just another dumb pureblood, she would straighten him out. It would be a simple thing for her to make him eat out of the palm of her hand. But if he didn't listen, if he turned out to be one of those controlling pureblood wizards that looked down on women and believed that that was where there place should be, well, she really didn't know what she would do.

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The moment that Tatienne could no longer see her daughter's long golden hair through the window of the parlour room she turned to her husband and very nearly hissed. "She took that far too calmly."

Her hiss awakened Aunt Helena, who grunted a little before glancing around. "Where is Antoinette? Has she been told? Can I leave now?"

"Yes, Aunt, to all questions," Edmond answered. "And Antoinette is currently in the gardens, most likely crying her eyes out."

Helena humphed before standing up. "In my day we accepted our due. None of this crying nonsense." She flapped a dismissive hand. "But as long as she _has_ accepted it . . ."

"She knows her place, Helena," Tatienne said stiffly, not looking up from her plate. "If she did not she would risk our displeasure, and Toni has never gone so far as to do that."

"_Toni?_" Helena fairly spat. "Why do you still insist on calling her by the awful pet name? She is no longer a child to be coddled so."

"Yes, but she is still my child, Helena." Tatienne looked up at her husband's Aunt at last. "You will do well to remember that."

Helena humphed again. "At least she will not be that for long. I know Walburga Black personally. Have known her for years. She was the granddaughter of a very good friend of mine, and her own mother was French. But once Antoinette has been made a Black, that will be the end of your familial association with her. She will be English, she will be miserable, and she will be Walburga's. It is exactly what the girl needs to curb her temperament."

"That is illegal, Aunt." Edmond said, dabbing the corner of his lip with a silk handkerchief in order to remove a crumb that wasn't even there. "No one can keep Antoinette from seeing her own parents. No matter how much power and influence they might have with their Ministry."

"Did I say that? I simply said the end of your familial association, not all association. Besides, what is with all this prevarication? You thought it a very good idea to affiance Antoinette seventeen years ago. Are you now having a change of mind?"

"Not at all, we still think it a good match," Edmond assured, and Tatienne nodded. "What we object to is your continual dismissal of Antoinette and your instance on treating her as a woman from your own time. These are new times, Aunt. Of muggle clothes, and muggle relations, and muggle automobiles. Such a thing is now considered fashionable. At least for the younger generation. Things are changing, and we must change with them, no matter how much we might despise the fact. Toni is a child of this new world. She was born into it."

"If you believe that, you _must_ be drunk," his Aunt answered. "Or Beaubatons has influenced you, just as it has obviously influenced your daughter. I told your father to send you to Durmstrang —!"

"There is nothing wrong with Beaubatons," Edmond interrupted calmly. "And I still maintain my stance. I do not like mudbloods and I never will. I am just saying that the wizarding world is changing, slowly but surely. It would be prudent to change with it. The politicians are."

"Politicians are politicians," said Helena as if that explained everything. But there was less heat behind her words and Edmond and Tatienne could tell she had given up fighting. "I can see you will not be budged. So I will see you in two weeks. If not then, or if I forget, I will meet you at the wedding. Goodbye."

Helena offered her wrinkled cheek to Edmond and his wife and they both kissed it before she turned, and stepped into the fireplace. A second later she was gone.

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Review Please.


	4. Gladrags

Disclaimer: Harry potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.

A/N: So sorry about the long wait.

Just a few minor things I thought I ought to mention. This story, which is Part One, is not meant to be taken seriously, only enjoyed. Of course you can take it seriously if you wish, but I just wanted to write something that was fun and enjoyable. Something you can read with a cup of tea in your lap, that sort of thing. Part two, however, which will be set later when Harry's in Hogwarts, will be much more serious. Definitely. For now, just sit back and relax.

Just one more thing. There is a hint of something, again, in this chapter. Nothing too major. T zone stuff. Enjoy!

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**Chapter three: Gladrags**

"What about his one Toni? Toni? Antoinette are you listening to me?"

"Hmm?" Antoinette focused on her mother, feeling a hotness sweep across her cheeks at the inquiring stare. She had completely ignored her mother again; that was the fourth time this morning. She would never get over the embarrassment. "I'm sorry Mama I was just thinking of . . . things."

Tatienne nodded, as though she understood what things Antoinette had been thinking about. In actual fact her mother probably wouldn't want to know what Antoinette had running around in her thoughts.

Lovemaking had been on her mind ever since she'd found out she would be marrying her betrothed a week ago. She didn't know why it was on her mind all the time. But it was getting rather embarrassing. The only thing she could think of was that she was extremely curious as to what the fuss was all about. The French after all, were a very passionate people that took lovemaking to the extreme. And there had been many a girl Antoinette had seen sneak back to their dormitory in the early hours of the morning, no doubt just arriving from a midnight tryst with a handsome boy. Beaubatons often played host to young lovers hiding behind embroidered tapestries or velvet curtains in the corridors. Antoinette knew, she had been a prefect, and she had seen it with her own eyes.

And now that she was to be a married woman, she would find out what all the fuss was about. She wasn't sure how the English standards in lovemaking added up to the French. She suddenly wished her new husband would be an experienced lover, then immediately blushed at the thought. Well, if her father was to be believed (even though she was sure he wasn't) Sirius Black was handsome, so even if he wasn't a good lover, she'd have something nice to focus on wouldn't she? She blushed again and put her hands to her burning cheeks. What was wrong with her lately?

"So what do you think of this one?" her mother asked her again. She was holding up a pure white satin cloth with fringes sticking out at the ends. Antoinette mentally screwed her face.

"I don't think so Mama. It is too . . . plain."

Tatienne sighed and would have rolled her eyes, but she knew it wasn't an attractive mannerism.

Antoinette perused her mother's face. She knew she wasn't being cooperative, and it was taking its toll on her mother. This was the third dress shop they had visited today, and Antoinette had yet to find the fabric that would be the basis for her wedding gown. They were all either too boring or shockingly gaudy that she hadn't had to even think twice before dismissing them. If only she could find the perfect fabric, somewhere in the middle.

"Toni you must choose a fabric soon so the dressmaker can pin it up and create the perfect gown," her mother said, reading her thoughts. "And you still need to choose fabrics for the rest of your wardrobe."

Antoinette's parents had decided that she needed a completely knew wardrobe in order to show the Black's that the Le Creux's were up on the wizard fashion plate. Translation: Show everyone that they had a lot of gold. Antoinette hadn't resisted. _What was the point? _she'd asked herself._ It's not as if I won't be marrying him. Might as well make a good impression._ So her mother had dragged her across different dress shops, first in Pointoise where they lived, then today in Paris.

Tatienne and Antoinette were currently standing in Gladrags. This was the last dressmaker shop in France, and if Antoinette didn't find anything here, she would have to go to a private dressmaker or another country to locate her fabric. And Antoinette had no particular desire to do that. But she still had hope. They had only been in the shop for half an hour after all and there was still plenty more to see. Besides, Gladrags was reputed to be the very best of the best dressmakers in Europe; they had three different branches after all, one in Paris, one in England, and another in Scotland.

"Madame! Madame! Look at this one!" Linear, Tatienne's and sometimes Antoinette's personal house elf, burst out of a row of rolled up multicoloured cloths and rushed to them, near tripping over her own feet in excitement. In her arms she held the most beautiful fabric Antoinette had ever seen.

"Oh Linear you darling!" her mother exclaimed taking the cloth up in her arms to finger it delicately. "You really are treasure. Where did you find this?"

Linear started talking excitedly and pointing to the row of not so attractive cloths at the back of the store.

"Well," said Tatienne with a smug expression. "Evidently someone had found this cloth beforehand and could not afford it at the time, then hid it among those atrocious fabrics so no one else could find it. I didn't even think to look in there. Linear sweet, you must be commended to the kitchens," her mother added and the little house elf burst into tears of joy. It was common knowledge that house elves loved to work. The harder the work, they happier they were.

"I think this one will do, won't it Toni?" Her mother stared anxiously at her, and Antoinette eased her mind. She had already decided to keep the cloth.

"Of course mother."

Tatienne looked relieved and handed the fabric over to her daughter.

Antoinette sighed with pleasure as she bought the material up to her cheek and rubbed against it like a cat. It was simply gorgeous. The tiny embroidered patterns on the ivory fabric were hand-stitched silkworm threads in a Celtic design, not visible from far away, but they still offered a luminescent, surreal shine. The fabric underneath was as cool and sensual as silk and jewels woven together. Antoinette imagined herself in the cloth and smiled. She would look like a fairy princess.

"Right, now all we have to do is decide on the style of the robe. Or would you prefer a gown?"

Antoinette thought. "Could I not have both?"

"It has never been done, but I suppose you could. Oui, you could start your own fashion. You will be expected to after all, being married to a Black."

Antoinette frowned. It was just like her mother to think that.

"Don't frown so, mes on font," her mother chastised her. "You will get lines."

"I'm sorry Mama."

"Now where is that seamstress? Aha, there she is. Come along petite, we must make your dress."

Antoinette followed her mother to the polished wooden counter where the elderly seamstress sat with a quill and a parchment correcting some measurements. The seamstress, Madame Bevard, was delighted that Antoinette had finally chosen a fabric and quickly ushered her to the back rooms and stood her on a small footstool.

"It will go brilliantly with her features, no?" Her mother announced to the seamstress. "Especially her eyes."

Antoinette had inherited just one thing from her mother; a pair beautiful sapphire blue eyes that tilted up at the corners. From her father she acquired her honey gold waves of hair. All in all it offered a striking combination that attracted most men to her like flies. Antoinette hoped her features would work to her advantage when meeting her fiancé. She hoped he would be attracted to her. Then half her worries would disappear.

Her mother had had the same problem with men when she was young. But instead of golden hair, hers was pure black, which made her eyes all the more noticeable. Now they were glowing with appreciation as she stared at her daughter.

Madame Bevard waved her wand and a tape measure erupted from it and immediately started measuring Antoinette from top to bottom while an enchanted quill worked out the calculations on the small table by her side.

When the tape measure had finished the Madame vanished it and took up the scroll with the measurements. She hmmed for a while and then lifted her wand.

Immediately the cloth around Antoinette started rearranging itself until it moulded to her body. Both her mother and Madame Bevard clasped their hands to their bosoms, with smiling eyes. Antoinette looked to the large gild-framed mirror beside her, and sighed in satisfaction.

The half gown half robe was beautiful; there was absolutely no question about it.

It was medieval in design but the sleeves were long hoops that fell to the ground and would no doubt trail after her train, which wasn't that long to begin with. The neckline fell just short of her shoulders and extended to a slight V across her chest. Her breasts, smaller than average to begin with, suddenly became far more pronounced with the plump globes outlined by the fabric — Antoinette spotted a small bit of cleavage peaking through. She hadn't known she could even have cleavage.

The dress even shone on its own, making it appear as though she were glowing. Add some pointed ears to the mix and she really would look like a fairy.

"It is perfecto mont, Mama. And merci to you as well Madame. It is wonderful."

She only hoped Sirius Black would like it.

"Your fiancé will fall at your feet!" exclaimed her mother, reading her mind again.

Antoinette only smiled. She knew that would be hoping for too much.

The truth was, Antoinette had this dreadful feeling her father had lied to her when he said Sirius Black was handsome. And now she kept picturing this skinny English fop with a pink shirt and a weak chin, falling over himself in his haste to impress her. Well, if that were true, she would never need to make do with laughs, as he would have plenty in store. At least her marriage wouldn't be boring.

Antoinette had discovered that she often had to make up optimistic excuses since she'd found out about her wedding.

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"It's choking me damn it!"

James Potter started sniggering. Sirius was standing on a stool facing a large mirror and tugging at the material around his neck with furious abandon, not seeming to care if he damaged it or not. James leaned over and fiddled with the uncooperative tie, finally securing it in place, then stood back to watch Sirius watch himself in the mirror.

Despite Sirius's complaints that he looked like a giant marshmallow that had seen one too many ironing boards, James thought Sirius couldn't be more wrong. He had always been the more attractive of the marauders at school. Not just attractive, but spectacularly handsome as well. And Sirius never pretended not to notice the female attentions he garnered all through Hogwarts and after. In fact, he basked in them and took advantage of them whenever he could. Which was why James had felt completely sorry for Sirius when he announced to the shocked group at the last Order of the Phoenix meeting that he would have to give up his bachelor lifestyle and get _married_ to get the gold they so needed. And not just that, but he would have to marry some girl he had never met before. A girl that was probably exactly like his mother, since it was Sirius's mother who'd picked her out.

After that meeting the Maruaders had all gone back to the Potter's house and listened to Sirius rant and rave about the unfairness of his life and how he had to marry "some young chit barely out of the school room. Seventeen? Seventeen I ask you!" Then he'd gone to get James's secret stash of Firewhiskey that he'd hidden from Lily from under the couch, and proceeded to get grogged out of his mind.

James had gotten in trouble then, because of the Firewhiskey, but Lily hadn't done anything because she'd been too worried about Sirius to care very much. In fact, Lily and James had both thought that after that disastrous dinner at Godric's Hollow, Sirius would be more inclined to listen to them and just get on with his life as best he could.

More fools they.

"I look ugly!" Sirius exclaimed, drawing James from his thoughts. James rolled his eyes because Sirius, in a moment of personality reversal, was acting sorry for himself.

"On second thought, it's good that I look ugly. Then she won't come anywhere near me."

James grinned cheekily. "You can't look ugly if your life depended on it, Padfoot."

Sirius looked disgruntled at that. "Do you think I should shave my hair off?" he asked, fiddling with the moderately short, smoothed-back strands on his head."

James snorted. "Not unless you want to look like your late grandfather."

Sirius immediately stopped fiddling with his hair, and turned to James with a disgusted look. "You just had to say that, didn't you?"

James shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well you were feeling sorry for yourself. I couldn't have that."

Sirius muttered something unintelligible and turned back to the mirror. The two-set robe he wore was pure ivory silk. The under-wrap reached to the ground and flared against his legs like a curled up leaf. The overlapping robe had sleeves just passed his wrist and the bottom half reached to his knees. It came together with a row of pearl clasps on the front, making it look more like a stylish muggle coat than a wizard's robe. A deliberation of Sirius's no doubt, just so he can annoy his mother. It also came with shoulder pads, but Sirius had had to take them off because his shoulders were already broad enough. The robe was a very stiff, masculine sort of silk that suited Sirius perfectly and dramatically emphasised his bronzed skin and black hair.

"I bet she's ugly," he stated out of the blue.

James blinked, and tilted his head slightly. "What?"

"My new bride." Sirius drawled. "I bet she's ugly and that's why they're marrying her off so young. Probably can't stand to look at her face."

"Padfoot, you're just making up excuses."

"Well if she isn't ugly, you can be certain she's just like my mother. My dear Mummy has already informed me, with great pleasure might I add, that Miss Le Creux comes from the purest stock available in France."

James already knew that as Sirius had told him so more than once before. "So?"

"So?" Sirius clenched his fists. "So it means that she's a muggle-hating Death Eater worshipper that probably avada kedavra's small animals for pleasure. Just like my cousin Bellatrix."

James frowned, eyeing his best friend dubiously. He hadn't heard _that_ before. "Don't you think you're making assumptions, Padfoot? You don't really know how she's going to be like until you meet her."

Sirius snorted. "Oh I know alright. My mother told me that her family is just like ours. Hates muggles and everything, and that's why she chose them in particular, because she knew it would get to me."

"Your mother hates you, Padfoot, are you really that surprised?" James asked and Sirius shook his head. "So are you going to purchase that or what?"

His best friend sighed and looked at himself in the mirror one last time. "I guess it's as good as any." He looked over at James. "Are you going to buy yours?"

"I have to, don't I? Or Lily would skin me. She's already dragged me around to buy Harry's robes. She doesn't need to do the same again."

Sirius grunted and got off the stool. "Buying a one-year-old kid a best man outfit? What were you thinking, James?"

"It's not my fault. Lily thought it looked cute." James frowned as Sirius started snickering. "Well I'm glad you think it's amusing. Just wait until you have a kid, then see how you feel."

_That_ sobered Sirius up. The prospect of having a kid, and the fact that he would have to have it with _her _because he now had little choice in the matterdisgusted and angered him. "That was a bit below the belt Prongs," Sirius said softly.

James, looking a bit sheepish, muttered a hasty apology.

A LITTLE WHILE later, with their purchases shrunk and pocketed, they walked out of Gladrags Dress Wear and headed to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint. They certainly made a striking pair as they pushed through Diagon Alley. They could have been brothers. In fact they were often inclined to say that they were brothers in everything but blood because they teased each other like brothers and loved each other like brothers. They also had similar features. Both were tall with broad shoulders and black hair. James's looking permanently windswept, and Sirius's brushed elegantly back away from his face. They were both purebloods, both worked for Dumbledore as members of the Order of the Phoenix, and as everyone who saw them could attest, they were both highly attractive men.

They entered the Leaky Cauldron, which was brimming as usual. They spotted an empty table next to a hag, and were about to walk over to it when Tom, the pub's owner, waved at them. Exchanging resigned looks they walked over to the bar.

Tom smiled toothily at them. "Hello boys. Can I interest you in a drink? Or perhaps some food?"

James nodded, his glasses glinting in the candlelight. "I'll have some of that apple-brew I heard is so good."

"I haven't managed to unpack it yet. It's still in the crates. Don't suppose you can help me?"

"Do you really have to ask, Tom?" James responded, and they followed Tom behind the bar and into the small kitchen.

"Dumbledore really needs to think up a new code. That one is getting far too repetitive. Regulars will start getting suspicious, especially as there is no apple-brew." Sirius crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wooden counter behind him looking irritated.

"Well it's not like I haven't asked him to. I think he forgets purposefully." Tom said, eyeing Sirius critically. "And what's got you in a mood?"

James grinned, not resisting the importuning to rib his best friend a little. "His upcoming marriage of course."

Sirius released an unattractive snarl, while Tom just chuckled. "That still holdin' you by the nose? You could easily get an annulment later on, Sirius."

Sirius scowled darkly. "Yes, but not for another three years. And by that time I'll probably go mental. Besides, an annulment isn't like muggle divorce. I'll always have a connection with her. And I still won't be able to marry who I want; because I'll be bound to _her_ until death do us part."

Tom offered him a sympathetic look.

James let out a breath. "Well I'm sure you didn't call us over to discuss Sirius's impending doom," he prompted.

"Well actually that is why." Sirius and James looked confused. "Well, part of the reason why," Tom continued, then glanced quickly up at Sirius before rushing the next part of his statement. "Dumbledore tells to say that you have to take your new bride on a holiday once you get married."

All Sirius could do was stare in disbelief before: "WHAT!" he exploded.

"Shhhh!" James and Tom said together, looking towards the door nervously and motioning with their hands.

Sirius took several controlled breaths through his nose before speaking. "What is the point of taking her on a honeymoon?"

James frowned. "Yes, what is the point?"

Tom, looking annoyed, started fiddling with the dishrag around his neck. "Don't get all snarly at me, I'm just the messenger."

Sirius snorted. "The messenger, no doubt, because Dumbledore is too much of an old so and so to ask me himself so he gets you to do it for him."

"No doubt," Tom agreed. "He says you have to do it as to uphold the image of, well, love I suppose."

Sirius sputtered, looking disgusted. "I am not . . . what . . . how could he . . ?" He took a deep breath. "I will not, nor will I ever have any ounce of feeling for that muggle-hater, let alone _love _her."

"Dumbledore knows that. You only have to pretend, you see."

"Explain."

"It's so Death Eaters don't get suspicious. You'll bring attention to yourself if they even have inkling that you hate your bride. They'll wonder why you've gotten married. They'll start asking questions. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"In other words you're saying that if Voldemort finds out I'm funding the Order, I'll be his next target?" Sirius looked unimpressed. "Well, it's not as if I'm not a target already. What with denouncing my parents and joining Dumbledore and all that!" he snapped, his temper coming, again, to the fray.

"Yes but that's just regular stuff everyone knows about. This is something that could lead –"

"Alright, alright!" Sirius inhaled a bit of air to unclog the tightness in his throat. "What was the other thing Dumbledore wanted you to pass on?"

Tom sighed, obviously relieved that the danger was over and that he didn't have to tread on soft ground anymore. "Just to be careful and on the look out for anything suspicious."

"That won't be a problem." James said, his brow still creased from their earlier conversation. "We do that all the time anyway."

Sirius responded with a grunt. "Is that all?" he asked.

Tom looked a bit fearful, to which Sirius narrowed his eyes. "No," he admitted, slowly. "Dumbledore also gave the suggestion, just a suggestion mind you, that you could be seen around your fiancé a little before your marriage as well, so as to give the impression that you, well . . ." he trailed off on the look on Sirius's face.

"Right." Sirius said tightly.

"You don't _have_ to," Tom reminded him.

"We both know that when Dumbledore _suggests_ something, there is no 'I don't have to' about it."

"Right you are." Tom said, and glanced sorrowfully at him.

This made Sirius even angrier. He hated being pitied.

James, sensing his best friend's mood, quickly offered an out.

"We should go now anyway, Tom." He motioned towards Sirius with a slight jerk of his head. Tom, comprehending, nodded.

"Well I've got to head back to the bar anyway. Drinks don't sell themselves you know."

The two, with Sirius fuming behind them, walked out of the kitchen and back into the public.

"Thanks for the apple-brew Tom. Best thing I ever tasted since Butterbeer." James glanced at Sirius whose expression remained stoned. "No doubt Sirius thinks so to," he added and elbowed his best friend in the ribs.

"_Ow!_ All _right_ . . . ! Butterbeer doesn't come close, Tom," he coughed out.

"Be seeing you then!" James said, cringing at the badly scripted code, before grabbing Sirius's arm and tugging him over to the fireplace.

"We're going to my place," James told him, before disappearing in a burst of green flames.

Sirius followed, resigning himself to another night of drunkenness.

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A/N: Next chapter will be longer, I promise, and it will come out really soon. Like a couple of days soon, because I've almost finished it. I just wanted to get this one out beforehand. Finally!

Also J.K. said, in an interview I think it was, that James didn't have a job because he had enough money to live comfortably. As you no doubt noticed, I didn't give him one.

Also, if you haven't worked it out yet, Sirius has no idea that his mother betrothed him when he was a little boy. I figure that she would have told him when he turned of age, which is 17, but he left the house before then. And Sirius asking for gold for the Order gave her the perfect excuse to utilize that betrothal.

Thank you to all who reviewed, and, if it isn't too much trouble, could you review again please? Of course I'll accept even more from other people . . . hint hint.

Happy Reading!


	5. The Meeting

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me.

A/N: There are a _lot_ of references and innuendo in this chapter. I'd say 15 plus for sure.

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**Chapter Four: The Meeting**

"Look there's Abigail Dimwaffle! Haven't seen her since Hogwarts."

"Don't call her that James. She has a proper name you know."

James grinned roguishly at his wife. "Why not? She was in Hufflepuff after all." He ducked just in time to avoid the pacifier Lily flung at his head.

"You shouldn't judge people because of what house they're in, or _were _in as in this case. I thought we'd settled all this with that whole upside-down Snape incident."

"Well you have to admit that she _was_ pretty dim, Lily."

"I won't admit any such thing James Potter!" Lily said, her voice shrill.

"She set herself on fire by prodding her wand tip in a cup of water!" James reminded her, incredulously.

Lily's lips twitched. "I suppose that was rather stupid," she admitted. "But it could have happened to anyone."

James groaned. "I'll never win with you."

"That's right." Lily stated smugly. "Now get me Harry's pacifier. He's starting to grumble."

James blew a kiss to his wife before reaching into his pocket for his wand, and then summoned the dummy.

Lily looked scandalised. "James that pacifier was an arm reach away!"

James shrugged. "I was too lazy to bend over, wife."

Lily sniffed in disproval before rinsing the pacifier in the glass of water in front of her and popping it in Harry's mouth.

"And don't call me wife."

"Why not? That _is_ your occupation after all."

Lily, having no more available missiles at her disposal, settled on glaring at her sniggering husband. "When are your friends going to get here? At least they'll keep you occupied so you won't have to bother me anymore."

"I'm hurt. Now let me think. Pete'll probably forget until the last minute, so I don't expect he'll show until later. Remus should be arriving any time now. And Sirius is at this very moment trying to kill himself, so he won't be showing up at all."

Lily tsked. "That isn't funny James."

"I know for a fact that this isn't his first attempt either. He's gotten quite creative at it too."

"James stop! It isn't nice how you're always ribbing him about this."

"Well, he's not here is he?" Lily still looked saddened. James sighed. "Look. Sirius is my best mate and no one more than I regret what's happened to him. But he's had a whole two weeks to sulk on it. Now he should concentrate on being the doting fiancé, completely besotted by his fair lady."

"I know, but, well, it just isn't fair! He's already had such a horrid life, living in that Grim Old Place or whatever. Now the entire rest of his life will be ruined because of this."

"You should know that life is never fair, Lil's, especially in the middle of a war," James reminded her gently.

Lily sniffed again, only this time with remorse. "I know."

"At least we have each other and Harry to get by. Makes this war a whole lot more bearable if you have someone to fight for."

Lily smiled. "James, sometimes your profoundness amazes me. I'm glad I married you."

Without warning James leaned over and embraced her tightly. Lily sighed with pleasure and basked in the scent of her husband, feeling the all too familiar tingle in her limbs as his lips began a slow descent from her neck to her ear.

"James, not in public," she said, a little breathily.

Her husband chuckled sexily. "You know I can't help it when I'm around you," he murmured, and Lily blushed.

"Here take Harry, that'd give you something to do besides embarrass me." She handed the snoozing one-year-old to his father, and then settled on watching her two men. How she loved them both! If anything were to happen to either of them . . . _No, don't think about that Lily!_

She'd told herself time and again not to think about the future, but to only enjoy the present for whatever it was. It was true that they were all involved in a war with the fiercest Dark Lord in a hundred years, or ever, but Lily's optimism meant that it was also the happiest time of her life. She never imagined that she could be happier right at this very moment, watching her husband and child. This was her life and she was grateful for it no matter the current debacles the world drudged up every so often.

"Well if it isn't the Potter's sitting here in the corner all by their lonesomes."

Remus Lupin walked up to their table with a smile on his face. He gave Lily a kiss on the cheek and sat down on James's opposite.

The man in question looked at him suspiciously. "What's got you in such a good mood, Moony?"

Remus grinned in that I-know-something-you-don't-know, way. "Nothing," he proclaimed, innocently. Then spoiled it by adding, "Only the fact that Sirius's new fiancée isn't as ugly as he thinks."

That made husband and wife sit up.

"You've actually seen her?" James asked his friend. "Where is she?" He scanned the crowed of growing international ministry officials in the hopes that he would spot someone who looked like a fiancée of Sirius's, then stopped when he realised he didn't actually _know_ how she looked like.

"Yes, I've seen her, and her parents. They're out near the Fountain of Magical Brethren talking with Mrs Black. I think they must of portkeyed in. And let me tell you, she is gorgeous James," Remus stated with a dreamy smile on his face.

James snorted. "That doesn't mean anything. Her heart's probably still as black as her last name's going to be."

He looked nervously at Lily, who was frowning. "You shouldn't judge people before you get to know them, James. I thought that would have drilled itself into your thick skull the past week when I told Sirius the same thing."

Remus began chortling. "Just like in seventh year, eh Prongs?" and started laughing even louder when James grimaced.

The werewolf took a deep breath. "Well, I don't think you have to worry about James or Sirius judging them wrongly, Lily. I saw how they were dressed. Perfect aristocrats. And the way the parents behaved, as if they had something unpleasant shoved beneath their noses?"

Lily looked a bit disgruntled. "Well, what about the girl?"

"I don't know how her face looked, she turned around as I was passing them." Remus remained silent for a moment, as if he was reluctant to tell them something. "Mrs Black spotted me," he admitted. "I think that was the reason why they looked like they did. I think she must have told them about my . . . condition."

Lily's lips pursed, looking uncannily like her sister's in that moment. James grew sombre.

"It doesn't matter anyway, Moony," he told the quietened Remus. "Your friends are what matters, and we don't care."

He smiled, though it looked forced. "I know." But all of them knew how deeply sensitive Remus was about his Lycanthropy, and that Mrs Black's gossiping had hurt him.

"Well," Lily said to break the uncomfortable silence, "any idea when the others are going to get here?"

"Peter will probably forget and not show up at all. As for Sirius? I don't know. He's probably drowned himself in a bowl of porridge by now."

James let out a hoot of laughter, Remus chuckling along with him.

"I guess you'll have to learn to bear it Lily," James told his glowering wife, before cracking up again.

There was a small whimper. A cough. A wail.

"Oh, look! You just woke Harry! Give him to me." Lily reached over and scooped the upset baby from out of his sniggering father's arms.

"Mamamamamamamamama!" Harry gurgled. Lily almost burst with pride. It never failed to delight her when her son spoke to her.

"How come he can't say Dada yet?" James brushed his fingers over Harry's mouth, looking annoyed.

"He's only a year old, James. Give him time."

James cheered up at that. He was about to coo to his son when he spotted something across the room. "I say, is that them?" he asked, pointing over Remus's shoulder at the entrance.

Remus swivelled around in his chair, perusing the room. "Yep. What'd I tell you James? Stunning isn't she?"

"I'll say. At least Sirius will have something pleasant to look at. I don't feel quite so sorry for him anymore."

He yelped when Lily whacked him 'round the head with a napkin.

"But can you imagine the look on his face when he realises she isn't a hag?" Remus asked.

He, James, and surprisingly Lily, all cracked up at that.

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Antoinette was not having a very good day so far. She had woken up later than usual that morning with what had felt like ants scurrying around in her stomach; a feeling that had yet to diminish. Then she'd gone to her wardrobe to find something appropriate to show off in when meeting her fiancé, only to remember that she'd packed all her clothes last night and forgotten to leave a robe out to wear that day. After finding a tasteful hoop-sleeved silver robe she repacked her trunk and headed down to breakfast. She had gotten a shock then because her parents had not been there to greet her, as was their custom ever since she'd learned to walk.

She had eaten her breakfast, a little sad, because she hadn't had the remaining time to spend with her parents. Searching for them seemed the appropriate thing to do, and she'd found them already packed and waiting for her at the entrance, accompanied by her own trunk and Adele in her cage. They had ushered her along into a waiting limousine that took them to the nearest portkey office, which just happened to be in the French Ministry of Magic. When they'd arrived they still had to wait an extra hour in line because delegates from the French Ministry were also waiting to portkey to England, plus they had to get their wands checked and their identities certified, and it had all been a very disagreeable experience.

They had arrived at a dingy looking inn in London called The Leaky Cauldron that also doubled as a tavern. The rooms were habitable at least. In fact, Antoinette had been surprised at seeing her own room, which, though plain, was quite lovely nonetheless . . . Quaint, was the word she supposed she was searching for. Quaint and simple.

Antoinette stood now in her room and unpacked her belongings with a wave of her wand. Another wave and her robes flew to the cupboard to hang. She stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. Spotting a vase of daffodils on her bedside cabinet Antoinette seised on the opportunity to test out her transfiguration skills.

_Roses. And they must be white, _shetold herself, and flicked her wand.

The flowers gave a sad sort of wobble before, reluctantly it seemed, resuming the shape of white, albeit despondent looking roses.

She sighed. Transfiguration had never been her forte.

For the next couple of minutes she walked about; righting the carpet rug, prolonging the life of a nearly extinguished candle, and summoning Linear to bring her some yoghurt from downstairs. The latter didn't turn out quite as she'd hoped because Tom, the inn's owner, didn't exactly have yogurt, only sour cream, which Antoinette, reluctantly, sampled.

She started pacing within the first half hour.

The next half was spent staring out of the window at the passing muggle pedestrians below. This at least gave her some reprieve from the tense feelings encompassing her, because she was rather fascinated with muggle culture. She thought them queer, lovable things, and a Tely-vision sounded like quite a superb invention. She'd always thought them hardworking as well. Hardworking and remarkably intelligent. Compared to wizards they were at least. Wizards were lazy and relied too much on their magic. She was the first to admit that.

Antoinette gave one last longing glance at the window and all the freedom it tantalizingly offered and prepared to turn away to go and find her parents.

That one glimpse stopped her thoughts and actions completely.

Below, right below her window as a matter of fact, was a man. If he could be called that.

No, Antoinette did not think that one such as him could be placed in the same category as a man. A Pantheon God would be a more apt distinction.

He had black hair. Not too long. Not too straight either.

His face, from what little she could see of it, was simply superb. As though a sculpturer had decided he'd one day make the perfect specimen to represent manhood and had come up with this result.

He was dressed in some sort of coarse blue muggle fabric that . . . Antoinette flushed. She'd never seen clothing draped over the contours of a body like that before. It literally moulded itself to his legs, thighs, and . . . other things. She did, however, recognise the leather jacket he wore as one of her friends from Beaubatons owned a dragon-leather jacket that he'd gotten from his uncle. Of course, Antoinette was not fool enough to assume that this muggle wore dragon-leather, but, whatever leather it was he certainly knew how to show it off to the best of its provocative ability.

He was leaning against the wall of the nearby muggle bookstore, his arms crossed, one leg lifted at the knee and propped on the wall behind him. He looked, Antoinette thought, like he really wanted to be somewhere else.

It took a while for her to notice that her mouth was wide open.

Upon realising this she closed it with a tight snap, blushing, despite the fact no one had seen her look so undignified.

She could not believe how addled her wits had become, and all because of a pretty face.

_But he's more than just a pretty face. Admit it; you've never seen anyone look that good before. _

"No one has ever seen anyone look that good before," she confessed out loud. But it was true. She didn't think there had ever been a more handsome man.

And then it hit her!

He was a _muggle_!

Any hope she'd harboured that they might some day meet flew out of the window along with the pleasure seeing him at produced, and what came back, also to torment her, was the realisation that she would be meeting her fiancé in an hour's time.

"_Dieu!_" she cursed, and would have banged her fists on the windowsill if she hadn't been taught better manners.

Well that was just . . . just fine! As if her life wasn't already so complicated add a crush to a complete stranger into the mix and she'd have Complicated ready to taste.

She blinked when the dark stranger suddenly shifted from the wall. He took the time to rake an impatient hand through his beautiful hair, and . . . looked straight up at her.

She gasped and hurriedly stepped away from the window and into the shadows. He shouldn't have been able to see her! He was a muggle. Or was he . . . ? He certainly looked it. There was no hint that he was a wizard. Perhaps he had some latent magical ability. Or perhaps his brother or something was a muggleborn wizard, then he'd be able to see The Leakey Cauldron without problem, as he would have been there before and known what to look for.

She took a chance and peeked passed the window frame. Her eyes widened and hastily scanned the street.

The disappointment she felt as a result of his lack of presence surprised her. She'd only been staring at him for two or so minutes after all. Just because he was a supreme work of art; and just because her belly had fluttered when her eyes met his own for that split second was no reason to get all upset.

Oh, but they had been beautiful eyes. Just like the rest of him. Like dark smoke, and dark chocolate, and dark everything all mixed together in one delicious swirl.

She sighed.

A knock from outside signalled the approach of one of her parents. Her father most likely more than her mother. He was a man after all, and didn't need to spend as much time getting ready.

"Come in," she called.

The door swung open gently and Edmond entered the room. "Have you everything, Antoinette?"

"If by that you mean my wand, Papa, then yes."

Edmond was quick to pick up on the upset in her voice. He moved over to her place by the window and sat down beside her. "What is wrong, Petite?"

Antoinette was too well raised to give in to bouts of crying due to frustration at not being able to lead her own life, and she was too well raised to lie either. She settled on the partial truth.

"My life is unrolling without any assistance from me. I need do nothing but sit back and let it keep unthreading until all I have left in me is a blank fabric canvas. It is just not how I wished it would turn out. That is all."

Edmond became patiently alarmed, if such a thing was possible. That was likely the most despondent thing he'd ever heard his daughter say. And hearing her say she will be "a blank fabric canvas," when all this business was over was not something any father wanted to hear.

"Surely it isn't going to be as horrible as you are inclined to think, Toni? I've asked around."

Antoinette lifted her head over that admission. Any bit of information on her future husband was crucial to her. "Go on."

"While it is true that Sirius Black is a pureblood and that his mother is, well . . ."

"A bitch?" she offered innocently.

"Antoinette!" he reprimanded, shocked.

She laughed. "Well she is. Aunt Helena said it herself, did she not? Of course not in so crude a word . . ."

"I begin to wish we'd never told you that," said Edmond, shaking his head.

"Well I'm glad you had. It gives me a basis. Now what about Sirius Black?"

"What I was going to say was that even though he is a pureblood certain important individuals have told me that he is estranged from his family."

"What?"

"That is exactly what I thought."

"But it mustn't be true, Papa." Antoinette was certain that it couldn't be. Why would Walburga Black, or more to the point, _how_ would Walburga Black convince her son to marry someone if he was estranged from her? "You must be mistaken," she told her father. "Where did you get your information?"

Edmond had the grace to flush. "Now, see hear Toni—"

"Where?"

Her father sighed at her no nonsense tone. "Tom, if you must know."

Antoinette blinked. "Tom? Tom the innkeeper?"

Edmond nodded. "Oui. But you have to understand, Antoinette, he is privy to a lot of information. His position as barkeep guarantees it."

"You mean because people come in here to drown their woes in drink?"

"Exactly."

"But that still does not mean anything. Sirius Black could be estranged from his mother for a whole number of reasons. They could have had a simple spat and then got all offended for no reason. You know how pureblood families are. No affection, but a lot of arrogance. Oh I-I didn't mean . . . I am sorry, Papa."

Edmond patted her hand, though inside he was feeling like the worst sort of scum. It was true that he and Tatienne had not shown their daughter much affection besides a kiss on the cheek each morning and a few presents here and there. But what were presents compared to the absence of a parent's love?

"You need not apologise, Toni. It is our fault. My only excuse is that my parents raised me the same, and so did your mother's."

Antoinette smiled. "Papa, I love you. You don't need to explain yourself. I've led a good life so far. Simple and quite. I don't want it to change. Truthfully, that's what I am afraid of."

"But you have fire in you, Toni. Much to your mother's and my displeasure." She smiled. "You have spirit, and the strength to endure. And you will endure."

Grateful tears filled her eyes. "Thank you."

A HALF HOUR LATER Antoinette and her parents found themselves standing in the foyer of the British Ministry of Magic next to Mrs Walburga Black. Antoinette had thought her life couldn't have gotten any worse back at the inn, but she was wrong. Her fiancé's mother was a hag of a woman who had worse ideas about the predilection of the right blood than her own parents. This woman, she was sure, would have been a Death Eater if she weren't so old. And Antoinette could just imagine what her son was like. Then she had a horrid thought. _What if he was already a Death Eater?_

"A werewolf you know. Nasty half-breeds," Mrs Black was telling her parents in French, and they both developed expressions of mild disgust.

Antoinette turned to see a young looking man with light brown hair scurry passed them, staring determinedly ahead of himself. She felt for him, she truly did, because she now knew what it felt like to be in a situation she had no control over. _Poor boy_.

"Shall we adjourn to the eating room? Sirius will likely turn up soon anyway. We'd best secure a table."

Antoinette learned something then. Mrs Black did not ask. She ordered. Even though her statement had been in the form of a question, Antoinette knew someone who was used to getting their way when she heard them. It was in their manner of speaking, their dress, their eyes and characteristics. And she was expected to live with this woman? _Not likely._

The eating room, which looked like a large ballroom, was brimming with chattering people from all nationalities and walks of life. As they followed Mrs Black along the outer rim of the ballroom by the dining tables they passed a group of African wizards who were responsible for the pipe smoke that lingered like a cloud of fog just below the ceiling. They also passed the French Ministry representatives, the Belgian, and the Romanian, who had a pair of vampire fangs as one of the symbols on their flag, along with a stake dripping blood.

Mrs Black appeared not to notice any of this as she led them to a table to the far back of the large linoleum-floored room. A few tables away from the werewolf man in fact. He was sitting with a family of three.

The father had hair that looked like a mop and wore rectangular spectacles, but he was no doubt handsome. The baby looked exactly like the father if his hair was any indication, and the woman . . . Antoinette could see her vivid green eyes from where she was sitting. Eyes she shouldn't have been able to see in her current position.

_What? _

Antoinette did a double take and noticed, as she looked at each of them in turn, that they were all staring at her, as if they were expecting something.

They quickly diverted their attentions when they saw she'd noticed them watching, the beautiful redheaded woman blooming with embarrassment at having been caught.

Well, if she was such an interest . . . ? Perhaps they'd never seen a French woman before? Her parents and Mrs Black had been speaking French after all. Perhaps they were just curious? Somehow she didn't feel that was the reason.

An hour past, then two, then three. The Ministry heads had already given their speeches long ago, not one of them mentioning anything about the current standing in the wizarding world. It seemed as if, at least for one day, they wanted to forget about it.

Lunch had already been served half an hour ago and Mrs Black was running out of excuses as to why her son hadn't shown up yet, which gave Antoinette the feeling that Sirius Black was more than a little apprehensive about this marriage. This made her feel a lot better, so she wasn't at all as upset as her parents were becoming.

The three people were still paying attention to her. They were getting most tiresome about it too. Every so often she'd feel their gazes settle on her, and she would turn to them with a lift of her brow, her face not showing any other expression except cool, arrogant detachment of the situation. She knew it made her appear haughty, but she didn't care. _They_ were the ones staring at _her _after all. Every time after she did this they would look away, conversing amongst themselves. The black-haired man would even frown before scanning the room as if he were looking for someone.

Another hour passed. To say that Antoinette's parents were less than pleased was an understatement. Mrs Black, a woman Antoinette thought could never get flustered, was looking nervously at the dwindling crowd, as though expecting her son to pop out with the excuse that it was work that had kept him detained. Antoinette didn't expect any such thing. She was now of the firm belief that Sirius Black had cried off, and she couldn't be happier.

"Where iz your son, Madame Black?" her father asked her betrothed's mother, his fingers drumming consistently on the cream linen tablecloth. "I was under ze impression that he would be 'ere to meet 'is fiancée. The fact that 'e iz not, suggests 'e iz, 'ow do you say, uncaring of ze marriage?"

"He'd better be caring," Mrs Black mumbled.

_Interesting._

"What was that?" her mother, a more devoted student of English than her father was, asked.

Mrs Black seemed to deflate a little. Antoinette assured herself it was a trick of the light. That woman could never be intimidated. She simply oozed confidence. "My son is not that," she paused here, "enthusiastic, shall we say, about the marriage. You see, I only informed him that he had a betrothed two weeks ago. He hasn't exactly had much time to get used to the idea."

Antoinette wondered suddenly if this was the reason her fiancé was estranged from his mother.

"And why did you not simply explain this to us from the start?" her father replied in French. "It is only natural that he should have cold feet if he were unaware of the situation."

"I must admit I feared you would break the betrothal if I did."

"I see. But you need not worry. We have no intention of doing that. If the young man does not show up today, we will simply arrange a meeting on some other date."

There was no trick of the light this time. Mrs Black _did_ look relieved.

Antoinette cleared her throat delicately.

"I think I will go mingle. Sitting here for four hours on end can be quite dull."

Nobody at the table could possibly miss the implication of that statement. Mrs Black flushed with anger or embarrassment; Antoinette didn't know and didn't care. Her mother had to hide the small smirk that found its way onto her face behind a napkin, and her father, taking a drink of wine at the time, sputtered a little, before arranging his face into a disproving look. Antoinette simply gave him the same response she'd offered the werewolf and his friends, before excusing herself and walking towards the small crowd.

After asking the nearest person where the women's lavatories were, she made her way out of the room and down a small corridor towards the facilities. She released a small breath of air upon entering the bathroom. At least it was clean. She'd heard horror stories about the cleanliness, or lack thereof, of England's toilets.

She fiddled around with her coiffure for a bit, which was currently in a "heartbreaker" style that muggle women in the seventeenth century had favoured, but which witches had adopted as the current fashion hairstyle. It left small ringlets to hang about her face while the rest of her long hair was piled and clipped in larger curls on the top of her head. The fattest curl was left to hang over her shoulder. It was so long, in fact, that it reached to just below her breast.

Antoinette mentally grimaced at the style, but her mother had insisted, and Linear had pinned it up.

Shaking her head a little she unclipped her small handbag and pulled out a face powder. Oh she was running out, she would have to get some more later She quickly applied it until she felt satisfied with her reflection. It grinned at her when she thought of her scaredy cat fiancé. She hoped he would never come. Never ever ever.

Her mind began filling with the possibilities open to her now. She could still get a job, something in the French Ministry perhaps, like a researcher. After that she would, naturally, purchase her own house as well. Or it need not be a house. Perhaps a flat in Paris next to the Ministry? A small one. And one that was near a bakery, so that in the morning she could sit at a little table sipping coffee and eating fresh croissants. It didn't matter if it'd be a muggle bakery. In fact, the mugglier the better as far as she was concerned. Yes, things were certainly looking up.

She bumped into someone as she exited the bathroom.

"Excuse-moi," she said, horrified at her misdemeanour. Hurriedly steadying the person Antoinette looked up, and gasped. It was the redheaded woman! Antoinette took a moment to appreciate the woman's spectacular green eyes, and how wide they opened, as she realised just who she had bumped into as well.

The woman looked highly uncomfortable. "That's alright; I wasn't watching where I was going." She coughed a little. "And while I'm at it I should apologise for all the, erm, staring that my companions and I did today. You must think us horribly rude."

Antoinette blinked, surprised at the woman's apology, certain she wouldn't have admitted to her actions.

"That's quite alright." The woman looked surprised, then relieved. This annoyed Antoinette. Did she think she was just going to get off without an explanation? "I must admit, though, it did annoy me, and gave rise to the question of why you were staring at me in the first place?"

The woman's blush was even redder up close than it had been at the tables. "W-well, you see," she stuttered, then seemed to look resolved. "Perhaps you'd better follow me, you can see with your own eyes."

Antoinette felt confused. _See what?_ But the woman wasn't waiting for an answer, she merely gestured to the corridor and Antoinette followed.

"I'm Lily by the way. Lily Potter."

Antoinette was inwardly surprised. _Potter?_ They were certainly a prestigious pureblood family. One of the most prestigious in England. "I'm —" she began.

"Antoinette Le Creux, I know," Lily Potter said, confusing Antoinette even more. Of course it was possible she had asked around and found out her name from somebody . . . but . . . she spoke it with such conviction, like she was so certain that she was right. "We, that is my companions and I, were just on our way home. I needed a quick nip in the bathroom."

Antoinette could not imagine why Lily Potter had told her this. Lily Potter must have realised the same thing, because she blushed scarlet again. "Anyway, we, that is, my family and I, found someone on our way out and . . . well, you'll see."

Antoinette certainly hoped she _would_ see. She was curious and the woman's half statements were getting bothersome.

They walked around the corner of the corridor and into the hall where she and her family had first apparated. There, standing in front of The Fountain of Magical Brethren were four males. The werewolf, the black-haired man, the baby and. . . _him_? Her muggle stranger from the street in front of The Leaky Cauldron! Well, she couldn't exactly call him a _muggle_ stranger now, could she? For one, he was actually standing in the Ministry of Magic, for another, he looked nothing like a muggle now.

He was, in fact, dressed in wizard fashion. Impeccable wizard fashion. Dark grey robes of pure silk draped his body, and, had Antoinette thought he looked good in muggle clothes? He was positively resplendent in wizard robes. Though, she had to admit, they did cover a lot more of his body than she would have liked, but, he was here!

_Why was he here? _

He hadn't noticed her yet, (though it was doubtful he'd recognise her or remember her when he did, and it could also be because he was facing the other way) but his two companions, the werewolf and the black-haired man, had. Their mouths gaped in shock.

Lily Potter, with a nervous glance at Antoinette, cleared her throat. "Ahem, Sirius?"

Antoinette froze. _Sirius? Surely not!_

But Sirius, if it was in fact him, apparently hadn't noticed Lily Potter's interruption, or his friends' wandering attentions, because he kept talking.

" . . . really horrible! And damned itchy! Just tell me one thing, James. Make my day, would you, even lie to me if you have to! Was she really furious? At my lack of absence, I mean. What am I saying, of course she was! The old hag wouldn't be able to keep it in! I'm surprised the bloody ceiling hasn't collapsed by now!"

Sirius finally noticed he was being ignored. He waved a hand in front of his friends' faces. "James? Remus?"

"Sirius?" James said, blinking at him.

"Have you heard a bloody word I've said?" Sirius demanded.

"Yes, of course. It's just . . . you'd better turn around, Padfoot."

Sirius threw his best friend a partly amused, partly confused, partly irritated look, but obliged him.

The first thing he thought was: W_hen exactly do fairies grow so big?_ but common sense prevailed and he felt like a right idiot. It wasn't a fairy he was staring at, at all, but a young woman. A familiar looking young woman whom Sirius was sure he'd met before, but couldn't hit his nose on it at the moment.

She wore a robe of silver, half medieval half piratical in design with long hoops for sleeves so that just the tips of her fingers peeked out. Sirius suddenly imagined himself lying her down on his sofa and sucking on those fingers, and—_Merlin,_ _calm down, boy!_

Her hair was golden-white, but more gold than white . . . whatever, it was somewhere in between. Her features were decidedly elven and rather delicate, and Sirius felt he couldn't be faulted for thinking she was a fairy. When his gaze met hers at last he was hit with such a jolt of pure lust that he almost gasped with it.

_Sapphires_, his mind whispered, and Sirius agreed wholeheartedly. He knew suddenly without a doubt that if he were to date this girl he'd always buy her sapphires for presents. And . . . that was it! _Those eyes._ He'd met those eyes before when they'd collided with his own through a window at The Leaky Cauldron.

He smiled satisfactorily. He'd been intrigued by those eyes, despite the fact he hadn't even had a proper glimpse of their owner, and was now fairly crowing at having met her.

He was attracted, there was no doubt.

"Sirius Black, luv," he said, extending a hand. She flushed pink at the endearment and Sirius grinned. When she handed him her hand to shake he grasped it gently in his own and brought it up to kiss. Those beautiful eyes widened.

Neither of them noticed the amused looks being exchanged around them. "And who might you be?" he asked, and the amused looks turned to ones of consternation.

"I'm, well, I'm Antoinette, I suppose."

He grinned at her stuttering. "Antoinette is it? What a lovely—_What_!"

Antoinette jumped a little at his shout, realising he had yet to let go of her hand. In fact, he tightened his around hers to the point of it almost being pain. "Please tell me your last name isn't Le Creux?" The man sounded almost pained. In fact he closed his eyes tightly, as if he were making a wish, or as if he were praying.

"Yes," she said a little hesitantly.

She found herself realised so fast she almost tripped.

"Oh dear!" Lily Potter exclaimed, holding onto her arm. "Are you alright? Sirius, really! That was uncalled for!"

"I beg to differ, Lily. It was totally called for."

Both Antoinette and Lily gasped at his callousness. "Sirius!" Lily hissed, but he wasn't paying much attention to her; wasn't paying much attention to anything beyond Antoinette at the moment.

Developing an expression of deep disgust he looked her slowly up and down. Antoinette shivered, this time with misgiving instead of the pleasant tremble he'd invoked in her the first time he'd done so. His gaze was nothing like before. His look now was so filled with loathing that Antoinette was surprised she wasn't dying where she stood. The eyes she'd thought so wondrous before were now dark, empty, uncaring . . . soulless.

_He hates me_, she realised, with some surprise. _Truly, irrevocably hates me_.

But the thing that really depressed her was that before he knew who she was he hadn't acted like he'd hated her.

So he hated her did he? Hated her without even knowing her? Antoinette decided, foolishly perhaps, to see if she could change that. If he wasn't willing to become friends at least, or even allies (because it was obvious he wanted to get married as much as she did) well, they would be doomed from the start.

She held out her hand. Briskly. "It is nice to meet you."

Sirius sneered down at it, looking as though he'd swallowed something nasty.

_Well, there went that plan, _Antoinette thought, not really surprised.

There was a tense, awkward silence among those present. Eyes flitted from one to the other, waiting. Finally, Sirius spoke: "I would say the same, but I don't like you."

She heard Lily Potter's stunned gasp beside her. Yet Antoinette showed no emotion on her face, besides the lifting of her brow. _Well, he'd gone too far this time, hadn't he? To the point of being insulting without provocation._

"How wonderful for you," Antoinette said, exhibiting all the dryness she could into her tone. "But don't presume to judge me before you get to know me. Otherwise I might just exhibit upon you the same distasteful mannerisms you are now so kindly showing me."

A stunned silence followed that statement. Everyone except Sirius and Antoinette looked uncomfortable, no doubt wishing they were elsewhere.

Sirius, on the other hand, clenched his fist in anger at her smartly put statement. _So miss hoity toity wants to play does she? How dare she try to provoke me?_ "You have no idea who you're playing with little girl. I can tear you to shreds with my words," he whispered hoarsely.

Antoinette's expression didn't look particularly caring. In fact it didn't look anything at all.

Sirius was furious that his words hadn't affected her as he'd wanted. What was she made of stone that she had no feeling? He'd been right about her all along then, he thought with a perverse sort of satisfaction. She was nothing but a haughty, pureblood, muggle-hating ice princess of a witch!

But she was a damned fine ice princess. Sirius swallowed gruffly. He'd bloody well better keep his hands to himself unless he wanted to be stuck with her forever.

"We need to talk." Not caring about his friends or what they would think, Sirius strode forward and grabbed her arm in a rather painful hold (if her gasp was anything to judge by) and more or less dragged her around the corridor and into the female toilets.

There he released her roughly, and started pacing in front of the sinks. Her eyes followed him warily, no doubt thinking he was mentally deficient. _Good. Let her think that. Let her think badly of him. Let her think _something_ for Merlin's sake, instead of just standing there like a statue._

He stopped pacing, unclenched his jaw, and leaned up against the sink with his arms crossed. "Let's get something perfectly straight. I don't like you. I will _never_ like you. But I _will_ marry you. And you _will_ marry me. And you _will_ give every impression that we are a happily engaged couple who are . . . in_ love_," he spat, and lifted his angry gaze from the floor to her eyes. She gave nothing away. "I don't know if my mother has told you, but I am estranged from the family, and the only reason why I'm marrying you is to get back my inheritance."

She was as cool as ice.

He frowned. "Say something damn it!"

"Thank you for being honest with me."

Sirius gaped. He couldn't help it. _Can nothing shake this girl?_ How he hated her!

"You're welcome," he said in a tone that implied anything but. "So you do understand what we must do?"

Her head moved ever so slightly down, as if by its own violation. "We must keep up the pretence of amour until we marry."

Sirius snorted. Amour indeed. _Not bloody likely_. "Not quite. We must also go on a honeymoon after that. Then I'll be free, and you can do whatever the hell you want."

She nodded slowly, calculatingly. "When do we start this charade then?"

"Right now."

"Must we . . . ?" she trailed off. Sirius watched as a pink flush blossomed on her cheekbones.

"Must we what?" he snapped. "Get on with it!"

There was no indication that she'd been bothered by his tone, as Sirius had hoped she'd be. "Must we show affection in public? Must we . . ." her crystal blue gaze, which had been directed downwards, lifted to his, "kiss?"

At her words, and at her look, Sirius closed his eyes and had to hurriedly cross his legs in order to hide the growing evidence of his arousal. He had tired, he really had, to remain cold and indifferent to her, but one little word from those heart-shaped lips blew that all to the devil. Not to mention her eyes . . . well Sirius had already proven that he made a complete arse of himself when confronted by them. There was nothing for it; he would just have to avoid them.

Nonetheless, he didn't think he could control himself if he was expected to actually kiss her in order to perpetuate their ruse. Thank Merlin that he wouldn't have to. He wasn't stupid. He loved women, and had enjoyed their pleasures ever since he was sixteen. He was a red-blooded male for Merlin's sake, and he knew that he could easily succumb to her and then try to seduce her, all because of the way she looked. No, kissing was out of the question, on account of the sake of his sanity and continued pride. But why oh why did she have to turn out so damned beautiful? Why couldn't she be ugly? It would be so much easier to deal with her then.

"No, we don't."

_Well thank Merlin for that. _Antoinette didn't know if her heart could handle their kisses when she'd know that they meant nothing to him. At least she wouldn't have that problem now. But it would still be so easy to fall in love with him. He was so deucedly handsome, and no doubt he knew it, too, the wretch! Oh, she felt like crying. All the hurtful things he'd said . . . but she would never give him the satisfaction. He would never know just how much he had hurt her. No, she would wait until she was alone and until she found a quite place to vent out her frustration. This meeting had gone even worse than she'd expected it to.

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	6. Dates are hazardous things

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. I got more for the last chapter than I had for the others all put together . . . I think, so thank you again.

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**Chapter Five: Dates are hazardous things**

Sirius lounged on James' sofa, a bottle of Firewhiskey in hand. This bottle had been his only companion (besides the Potter's themselves) for the passed three days. There was something to be said for remaining drunk for 72 hours, and that wasn't a whole lot. But Sirius was damned proud of himself nonetheless. He'd topped his previous record of a day and a half, where he'd imbibed enough alcohol to almost miss James' wedding the day after his Bachelor party. He chuckled to himself, remembering _that_ particular occasion. He'd had the best fun, but James, poor attached sod that he was, hadn't been able to, what with him marrying Lily the day after and all that.

Sirius scowled at the reminder of marriage and tipped the bottle to his lips for the hundred and seventh time that day, relishing the familiar burning liquid sliding down his throat. Of course it only stung a little now, his throat having gone numb hours ago from the potent drink.

He _would_ have to think about her.

But then, he'd thought of her almost non-stop for three days, which was why he'd attacked the bottle as soon as he'd left that blasted Ministry conference. And it certainly didn't help that it was one of those self-filling bottles, rendering him incapable of ever getting off his arse to actually sober up.

He snorted at the thought of sobering up. No, if he sobered up that meant he'd have to be serious again, and he didn't think he could handle that, not when all he'd think about was his bloody hell of an upcoming marriage. Not to mention all the outings he'd had to plan with the Le Creux's and his mother before that actually happened. They'd suggested three dates, but Sirius had nipped that in the bud quickly enough. He hadn't thought he could handle three outings with her, alone, without sneaking her off behind a garden statue and. . . Two was the limit, and that was that!

He groaned now, thinking of that. He'd tortured himself the passed three days. Tortured himself to the point where he'd had to get foxed to stop the images of them both in his bed from coming to the forefront. Obviously, he wasn't foxed enough if he was thinking about that again.

The amber liquid in the bottle sloshed once more as Sirius held it to his lips, this time taking a longer swallow.

And that was how Lily found him. She halted in the threshold, Harry in her arms, took one glance at him and said: "You look horrible!"

He arched a black brow. "You've only _just_ noticed?"

She stiffened and pursed her lips. "You needn't get nasty with me, Sirius. You put yourself in this situation and now you have to cope with it!"

"More's the pity."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He took the opportunity to slide his gaze over her. She wore emerald robes that nicely set off her eyes. "Where are you off to in those fancy togs? And why isn't Harry dressed similarly?"

He failed to note the suspicious tone his voice had taken, but Lily did. She smiled. "James and I are going spying for Dumbledore, remember? We'll be back before tonight, so you needn't look as though your life has ended. You love babysitting Harry." She ignored the snort that came from the couch. "And don't forget to sober up before then as well. Remember you have that date with Antoinette."

"Antoinette?" he repeated slowly. "Since when did she become so familiar? Oh never mind, she obviously doesn't realise you're muggleborn. That'll change soon you know, and she won't want to be your friend then."

Lily sighed. "You're determined to be exasperating aren't you?" Her eyes turned into emerald fire, and Sirius barely stopped himself from flinching. "I still can't believe you treated her like that! That wasn't you at all! And you're still determined to hate her, aren't you, even though you've only just met her?" At his mulish expression, she huffed, "I can see I'll be getting nowhere with you tonight. She's really a delightful girl, Sirius—"

"And you know this how?" he interceded. "You only met her for those couple of minutes in front of the bathroom, and James told me how her family stared at Remus when my, _mother_, informed them he was a werewolf."

"Oh he did, did he?" Her fist clenched. "Well dear old James can spend tonight on the living room rug!"

"Bloody hell!" came the disgruntled grumble before James stepped into the room, looking sour. "Thanks a lot for ratting on me, Padfoot!"

Sirius grinned. "You don't need to thank me, you have Peter for that."

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You're quite the comedian this fine noon. That's good, you can entertain Harry." He plucked the baby from Lily's arms, walked over to the couch, and dumped him on Sirius stomach.

He _ooffed_. "Damn it, James! I'm not a blasted cot!"

"No, you're a blasted godfather. And it's a godfather's duty to take care of his godson. Isn't that right, baby?"

Harry, at suddenly finding himself sitting on his godfather's quite comfortable stomach, began thumping his chest with his little fist. "Pad Pad Pad!"

"What in Merlin's Devil Beard!" James roared, but Sirius was surprised himself at hearing the baby gurgle that. James rounded on his wife. "When did he start speaking _his _name?"

"I'm not a _his_," Sirius said, now quite delighted with the proceedings.

James only took a moment to glower at him, and the fact that he was now sitting up and holding Harry in his lap, before turning back to his wife. "Well?"

"I don't know, just then I suppose." She rang her hands at his scowl. "I'm so sorry, James. But he'll start calling you Dada soon. You'll see."

"More like he'll start calling _me_ Dada soon." Sirius skimmed his lips over Harry's soft cheek. "Uh-huh, James, you can't murder me with your son in my lap." He grinned when his friend's scowl turned darker.

"Then I'll just have to get him out of your lap," James returned, tightly.

Lily became alarmed at seeing her husband actually start to stretch his arms out. She stepped in front of him and the couch, effectively cutting off his view of Sirius. "You're being ridiculous, James. You can't really mean to fight him over that?"

"No? We've fought over less before."

"True," Sirius said thoughtfully.

"Would you shut up, you idiot!" Lily spat. "I'm trying to help y—!"

James' hard kiss cut off the rest of what she was going to say.

Sirius snorted in disgust as her arms instantly scooped about his neck. Sirius knew this tactic well, as he'd often used it himself. If the woman was saying something you didn't want to hear, distract her until she forgot what she'd wanted to tell you. Still James was taking a bit bloody long wasn't he? And Lily was becoming very accommodating, deporting soft moans every now and then. When James' hand felt its way down to her posterior, cupped it, pressed it against him, and when he groaned, loudly, Sirius drawled, "I'd like to keep the poison I drunk down a bit longer, and I'm sure Harry has already had an eyeful, so if you two wouldn't mind . . .?"

This snapped Lily out of her eurohpic state, but James didn't have any such shame. He groaned, this time in annoyance. "Thanks again, Sirius."

Lily flamed scarlet at seeing that Harry really had witnessed everything sitting in his godfather's lap and staring unblinkingly. She bent down and kissed him to hide her red face. Sirius found it amusing that she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Are we going now or not, James?"

"Yes whatever," he grumbled. "Look after my son, Padfoot."

"You know I will," Sirius said softly.

With a wink at his best friend, and a pat to his wife's bottom, (she smacked his arm for that impertinence) James and Lily stepped over to the fireplace. Seconds later they were gone.

Sirius looked down at the Firewhiskey bottle in his right hand, then Harry. The bottle or Harry? There wasn't really much of a choice. The babe looked up at him. "What say we have a bath, Harry? Or a shower, better yet! You ever had a shower, baby?"

"Gea!" Harry said.

Sirius had no idea what the hell a "Gea" was, but he nodded nonetheless. "Yes, I agree. Showers are much faster. Let's get you undressed."

Twenty minutes later Sirius was standing under the warm spray in the shower, naked, holding Harry in arms, also naked, and blowing bubbles with the shampoo that had managed to stream from his hair, down his face, and into his mouth. Harry was popping them with his tiny finger. Every so often Sirius would pretend to bite the finger, sending the baby into peals of high-pitched laughter.

He grinned and pressed Harry into his chest. How he loved this little boy. Alarmingly so. Harry was James and Lily's son, but he was Sirius' baby. At least that was how Sirius looked at it.

He sighed low and deep. "What am I going to do, Harry? She'll never give me babies like you. Not that I want her to, mind you. And not that any baby could ever come close to you," he amended when Harry looked up at him sleepily. "I suppose you better have your afternoon nap then, eh? Let's get you out."

He rinsed off his hair, closed off the water valves and, tucking a large brown hand under Harry's soft bottom, stepped with him out of the stall. "Now where in Merlin did I put that towel?" Sirius took the time to scan the bathroom, but besides finding a small hand towel that wouldn't even cover his privates let alone both him and Harry, there was nothing. "We'll just have to make a run for it I guess." Not that Sirius would. He couldn't risk slipping on the tiles with Harry in his arms.

He stepped out of the bathroom and padded down the hallway and into his room. "Ah look, Harry, the towel was on my bed the whole while." But before he could pick it up and wrap them both in it the long mirror opposite the other side of the bed caught his attention. The first thing Sirius thought was that his skin was very dark compared to Harry's pale baby skin. He was also very big compared to Harry, with the babe only taking up not even a quarter of Sirius' chest. His muscled arm spanned Harry's back completely.

The baby was staring into the mirror also, with half-lidded eyes, out from which peeked his emerald glory. He'd stuffed almost his entire hand into his mouth and Sirius thought that if he died tomorrow he'd be content. Never had he thought that he could love this boy any more than he already did. This picture proved him wrong.

He felt Harry shiver slightly from the cool air, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Bloody hell! Here he was getting sentimental, and poor Harry was shivering to death. He quickly picked up the towel and snuggled them both in it. Briskly, but gently, he rubbed the baby down, and then himself.

After putting on his nappy, securing the last button on his little pyjamas, and sliding on some socks, Sirius set about dressing himself for his date that night. He found a pair of black robes that he thought rather drab, and rather out of date, but he didn't want it to seem like he wished to impress her so he dressed in those.

When he went back to the bed to pick Harry up and take him to his room, he stilled again at the picture. Harry was lying on his tummy and playing with the wet purple towel, which he'd become tangled in. Sirius smiled, suddenly marvelling that Harry had made him achieve what he'd been trying to do for the passed three days — forget Antoinette and his upcoming marriage. It seemed babies were a far better cure than Firewhiskey.

Gently removing the towel from Harry's mouth he lifted him up and walked out of the room. Half an hour later Harry was asleep and Sirius was back on the sofa downstairs, awaiting Lily and James. Of course they probably wouldn't come for another couple of hours, but Sirius had nothing better to do. The Firewhiskey bottle sat on the coffee table in front, but Sirius hadn't touched it.

It was damned tempting, though.

Not that he would drink it now. He'd gagged down the sobering potion Lily had produced for him a couple of days ago just before he and Harry had taken their shower, so there was no need to undo its effects. Besides, Harry had put him in a mellow mood now, and he didn't need the Firewhiskey anymore.

He needed all his wits anyway to deal with his upcoming, date, with _her_. He didn't want to be left vulnerable, which being drunk would have done to him.

He raked a hand through his hair and swore softly. It was the typical situation, wasn't it? Desiring what you couldn't have.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She stood by the bar in the Leaky Cauldron, waiting. Already she'd been propositioned twice. Once by an elderly gentlemen (and she used 'gentlemen' very broadly) who was old enough to be her great-grandfather, and the second by some young pup who could not have been more than ten. He had declared he was in love with her before his grandfather (who was, in fact, the elderly gentlemen) pulled him away, scowling. Afraid of the competition perhaps.

_He_ had yet to show up, but then he was only a few minutes late, nothing to get alarmed about.

They'd arranged to meet at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner, in a private booth of course, so as to keep any prying eyes from staring at them. But Mrs Black had assured Antoinette that they _would _stare simply because the Black family was rather famous in wizarding circles of certain 'desirable' (meaning purebloods) as well as 'undesirable' (meaning any wizard or witch who had grown up in the wizarding world) distinctions.

He had told her to wait by the bar.

Did not give any specific reason why she should not make her way straight to the private booth. No excuse. No apology for being so rude. No Nothing. Just to wait.

Antoinette suspected, though, (with Mrs Black's clues and Sirius' little confession in the women's bathroom, which she had at her disposal) that he _wanted_ everyone to see them together.

She barely stopped from rolling her eyes just then. Already he was becoming vexing to her nerves, and they weren't even married yet. But then, he'd vexed her nerves ever since she'd first seen him. It was only that now, he vexed them in a completely undesirable way.

_That's not entirely true, Toni. You still think he looks rather damned good._

Antoinette groaned. The voice had been her constant companion ever since three days ago when she'd first met Sirius. It was very annoying, very intrusive, and very tempting to listen to. She promptly pushed it to the back of her mind.

"Another Butterbeer, Miss?" Tom, the pub's owner smiled gently at her, still polishing the bar with his dishrag.

Antoinette stared at her empty glass, having no particular desire to drink any more. "No thank you," she told him. She turned her attention back to the innkeeper. He was in his sixties or seventies, still rather young for a wizard. Looking at him now reminded her of what he'd said to her father. "But you can help me with something else."

"Certainly," he replied jovially. "If it's within my power to."

"It has just occurred to me that you must know Sirius Black, or know of him well enough to provide me with a few insipid details. Purely to satisfy my curiosity, of course."

Tom didn't pretend not to know what she was talking about. Her's and Sirius' engagement had become the local gossip in the Leaky Cauldron, especially since her family were boarding there. "Of course," he said, and Antoinette flushed at his tone, because it must have been obvious to him that she was fishing for more than just 'insipid' details. "What would you like to know?"

"Is he always so . . ." she trailed off, not really knowing how to finish. "Well, domineering is the word I suppose I am searching for. And arrogant. Condescending. Derisive. Rude. Cruel—"

"Oh no!" Tom interjected, looking horrified. She started a bit. "Sirius isn't cruel, Miss. Or if he is he doesn't mean to be. He just hates his mother, you see."

She sat up at that. "Well I know that they're estranged, but hating his mother does not constitute hating me. And he does hate me. He more or less told him so."

Tom flustered around a bit. "Well . . . he's a very complicated man, Miss. Very, er . . ."

"Passionate?" Antoinette supplied.

"Exactly!" Tom nodded approvingly. "He's passionate about everything. Never seen no one who's more of a Gryffindor than he!"

She frowned a little. "What is a, a Gryffindor?"

"It's a house. Or a constitution," Tom added, mumbling. "Depending on how you look at it, you see."

Antoinette was even more confused now than she'd been before she asked the question. "A constitution?" she said slowly. "You mean he's in some sort of . . . club?"

Tom snorted. "That'd be about right."

Antoinette pondered over that briefly. Could the club Sirius was in be Tom's round about way of saying her fiancé was a Death Eater? Antoinette shivered. This wasn't the first time she had had such thoughts about him.

She had asked herself countless times why, at his insistence, did they have to pretend to be in love? To put up an act? What was the reason? It couldn't possibly be because he was afraid to humiliate her or his mother. He hated them both, after all. Antoinette had also given this matter a lot of thought, and had come to the conclusion that he must want to impress some very important people. Perhaps secure some high expense work that only employed people of extreme wealth. In other words he needed the money to fund something. And Antoinette was sure his inheritance would go the Dark Lord.

Antoinette had come to this conclusion whilst sitting on a toilet, because after all, there wasn't much to be done in there except think. She'd stiffened with fear, before telling herself she was being irrational. There was no cause for him to harm her. She was a pureblood. She was wealthy. . . She was also loathed by him. What if, three months into their marriage, he grew tired of her and disposed of her in some sly fashion? What if he told everyone that she had died while choking on a bit of egg at breakfast, and that he hadn't been there to rescue her . . . ? Yes, her imagination had been fruitful with all the different ways she'd had him murdering her.

But that night she'd gone to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning she'd laughed. Even if Sirius was in the service of the Dark Lord, there would be absolutely no reason why he should want to murder her. For one, he wouldn't be able to get his money. For another, he'd said it himself — that after the honeymoon she could do whatever she wanted as long as she didn't get in his way. That was fine with her. That worked both ways, and as long as he didn't bring any of his Death Eater friends to the house she could live with being his wife. Besides, he would probably arrange for an annulment after three years anyway. If the union had not been consummated by then he could legally declare their marriage void. And Antoinette was quite sure that Sirius would not be doing any consummating at all, just as she was sure he would annul their marriage at the soonest possible opportunity.

She had felt the teeniest, tiniest most minuscule disappointment at those thoughts.

She could always take a lover, she supposed.

The thought sickened her for some reason.

"And this club?" Antoinette said now, hoping to ferret out something that would at least give some credence to her thoughts. "It wouldn't happen to be . . . illegal, would it?"

Tom stared at her, rag dangling from his fingertips. His boisterous laughter rang out a second later, completely bewildering her. "Oh no, Miss! I think you misunderstood me!" More chuckling. "Gryffindor is one of the four houses over at Hogwarts school. I was in Hufflepuff m'self, but Sirius Black, he was in Gryffindor!"

She understood now that Tom had been making a joke. A flush spread across her cheeks. "I see." How simply _embarrassing_.

"Now there's no need to feel all ashamed, Miss," Tom said kindly, spotting the blush. "You weren't to know, after all."

"What are the other two houses called?" she asked, simply to change the subject and possibly lessen her embarrassment.

"Well, like I said, there's Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. The loyal and the courageous in that order, respectively." Tom stroked his chin and stared thoughtfully. "The next one is Ravenclaw . . . you'll never find more studious people, I'll tell you. And then there's Slytherin, o'course, mustn't forget Slytherin."

"And what traits does the Slytherin house hold?" Antoinette asked, now quite interested.

"Their fairly ambitious. Always striving for greatness. Rather cunning, too—"

"You forget to mention dark, slimy, creepy, obnoxious, snobby, and full of themselves," a low familiar voice interjected from behind.

Antoinette whirled around. Unfortunately, she didn't take into account that Sirius might have been standing directly behind her.

"OW!" they both yelped.

Her head had collided painfully with his, and was now throbbing. He didn't appear to be fairing any better. "You should bloody well think before you . . . _twirl_!" he whispered harshly, clutching his temple

She straightened. As if it was _her_ fault! "If you hadn't given me a fright, I would not have . . . _twirled_!" she whispered back just as harshly.

He pierced her with a velvet gaze. Then he smiled. "Very good, love."

She frowned and looked away, her face flushing a little at the endearment. He hadn't meant it, of course. It was all for show.

Her heart jumped when his cheek brushed hers. "Don't look so angry at me, love, we're attracting attention. Smile . . ." Pleasure sprung into her chest at his light teasing, then immediately plummeted when he added, "if you can."

Despite his harsh words his warm breath tickled her hear and his low voice sent spirals of heat to curl up in her belly. She mentally shook her head. _Dieu_, but he was dangerous to her senses. She took his advice and smiled up at him. "So, are you going to take me to our booth, darling? I'm rather hungry."

"Ah . . . o-of course." Sirius was still poleaxed by the smile she'd bestowed on him. He hadn't really expected that she'd take his suggestion to heart. As for that 'darling' . . . He frowned mentally. What the hell was wrong with him?

Nodding at Tom he offered Antoinette his hand. She took it gently and stood. They both noticed in that moment, as they stared at their entwined hands, that he dwarfed her. She was tall, yes, but she was very delicate and slender also. His body was twice the size of hers. He cleared his throat and tried to smile. He wasn't sure if he'd accomplished it. "Shall we?"

He led her passed the tables and over to the private booths in the corner. They were made of red velvet padding and were rather ornate, with gilded wood frames crafted around the edges. Aware of the stares of the patrons' pointed at them he sat her down, then let the pads of his fingers play with the curling tendrils of gold-white hair on the base of her neck.

She shivered.

Sirius almost sneered. She abhorred his touch, did she? Just as well, it was going to be easier for him in the long run.

He took the seat opposite.

Antoinette took a moment to calm her heart, which had jump-started when she'd felt his fingers graze her neck, then looked down at her empty plate. Now that they were finally here on this farce of a date she really didn't know what Sirius expected of her. They didn't like each other, so how were they going to spend the next few hours? Were they simply going to eat, or just stare at each other across the table? That seemed an almost . . . stupid, thing to do. Even if a couple were besotted with each other they wouldn't spend hours just staring lovesick-like into each other's eyes, would they. But, what else were they supposed to do? Talk? She almost snorted over that one. She could not imagine having a civil conversation with Sirius at all.

With long tan fingers he took up the napkin next to his plate, folded it in half three times, then placed it back on the table. He looked up at her and she almost forgot to breathe. He was devastating her senses by his mere presence, simply by sitting there. Of course the robes he wore left much to be desired, but that paled in comparison to the specimen in them. He was such a beautiful man . . . on the outside. She would have to remind herself of that. She almost jumped when he spoke. "Have you met my mother at all since the Ministry conference?"

He cleared her throat delicately. "Once."

He smiled wryly. "Heard stories about me, have you?"

"Actually, no. Whenever I wish to find something out Mrs Black almost immediately changes the subject, usually to the weather; that, or she tells me to drop the subject completely. She does not even seem to care that she isn't being very subtle. It's all very curious."

"I bet." His mother never was one for subtlety. Screaming was more up her alley. But he was more intrigued by the fact that she'd wanted to find stuff out about him.

"I would think," she continued, staring just below his eyes, "that a pureblood raised witch would have better control over her manners than that."

Sirius hated his mother so he had to agree, but Antoinette's imperious tone and imperious words—implying that only purebloods had manners—were still rubbing him raw. "If my mother hates you you'll never have to beat about the bush to find out, she'll tell you."

"Yes, it's rather refreshing."

Sirius was surprised, though he didn't look it. "You don't get along then?"

She blinked. "Oh I did not mean to imply that, merely that I have observed her with those she does . . . dislike."

"And you find that . . . 'refreshing'?"

She stiffened at his sneering tone. Her lips pursed. "At times."

He grunted. She _would_ think that calling muggleborns nasty names and sneering at them was 'refreshing.' She probably got along with his mother like a house on bloody fire. Merlin! His skin was crawling, he needed a drink, and he couldn't get over what a pretty parcel she made sitting amidst a red backdrop with her golden robes and white-gold hair.

Her crystal blue eyes dropped to her plate when he continued to stare at her.

He gritted his teeth. "Smile, Antoinette. Or better yet, give me your hand."

She blinked. "Wha—"

Sirius didn't wait for her consent but reached over and pried her fingers from around the napkin she was shredding, wrapped his own around them, then drew them back towards himself until their hands lay clasped together in the middle of the table. Her pulse fluttered under his thumb and he almost frowned. What in Merlin's name did she have to be frightened of? It wasn't like he was going to _eat_ her fingers, for God's sake.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Quite."

Sirius restrained from lifting a brow at her bland tone. Never once did she show emotion. Miss prim and proper, he thought sourly. "The menu's right there in front of the vase, you can choose whatever you like."

Her delicately boned hand — the one he wasn't holding — plucked the small menu parchment, unrolled it, and set it down next to her plate. Her eyes, cooly darkly blue, showed through exotically slanted slits in her eyelids. Her lashes were golden, a tone darker than her hair. Her eyebrows the same, slanting in a straight line, following the path of her eyes.

He drew a silent but deep, shuddering breath.

God, she was unbelievably beautiful!

And he wasn't just being nice saying that he'd never seen a more exquisite female. But then, he'd seen her parents. Both of them were prime representatives of what it meant to be attractive. Even her own father, who must have been fifty already, had a beautiful face rather than a handsome one.

Sirius had to mentally take control over his own body when those dark blue eyes glanced up at him. "Are you not going to choose anything?"

It took a second for him to realise she was talking about food. His eyes flicked down at his rolled up menu, which was leaning against his side of the vase. "I've already chosen. I come here often."

She nodded, went back to staring at the menu. Her lips seemed to be smiling, but not. They were dark maroon, but the colour appeared to be natural rather than painted. They were lush and thick and ripe for sucking. Sirius shifted in his seat. Bloody hell! It was getting painful. He needed to do something other than to stare at her no matter if it was the perfect cover. Order suspected Death Eaters often came to socialise in the Leaky Cauldron. It was a popular place after all, and there could be one in here right now. He couldn't afford to be a fool. He couldn't hit her with derision. He had to pretend.

_When they were alone._ When they were alone he could blast her with all of his contempt. The thought, perversely, soothed him.

Sirius was stroking her wrist with his thumb. It was hard and rough and her skin was sensitive.

She _wished_ he would stop, but he didn't even seem to realise he was doing it. He had been staring at her mouth for the past two minutes, and it took everything she had not to show her discomfort. She had never been more aware of her own body before, and how it could completely betray her on a whim. Her only escape came from reading her menu, which she hadn't really been taking in. But she tried to now and . . . _Shepherd's Pie?_ What in Great Merlin was that?

"Dar-Sirius?" Antoinette found she couldn't summon the courage to call him 'Darling' a second time.

His gaze, which had still been staring at her mouth, rolled up meet to hers. He seemed to be saying, "yes?"

"What is Shepherd's Pie?"

He blinked, then grinned lazily. She ignored her speeded up heart. "It's mashed potatoes atop a whole volley of dissected animal parts. Minced meat, in other words. It's really rather tasty. It should be right up your alley." A hint of scoffing tone crept into his voice when he added, "You eat frogs legs and snails after all, don't you?"

"Frogs legs, yes. Escargot . . . I must admit I've never been fond of the dish."

"So, you're ready to order then?" His tone was all business, but he still didn't release her hand.

"I suppose."

Sirius waved over a waiter, who had been polishing a nearby table with a white dish cloth. All of Antoinette's "I supposes" were telling. He knew that that implied she felt insecure, and he was intrigued by that; intrigued that she would let him see this weakness of hers. But there was the possibility that she might not know she was showing it. And Sirius _was_ rather observant himself. But he found it curious, also, that a pureblood witch, supposedly so in control of her emotions, wasn't really in control of them at all.

"Ready to order, Sirius?" The waiter stood before them, dishrag draped over his neck. He was fairly young, though not as young as Antoinette. His left eye also beheld a scissored scar. As though something sharp and grating had punched him or poked him there.

Sirius had not stopped staring at her. She made an effort for their ruse and smiled back at him. His eyes seemed to turn hot. "Yes," he said, in answer to the waiter's question.

"And who's this pretty thing?" the waiter said, turning to look at her. "Another one—"

"Put a lid on it, Davey, that's my fiancé!"

Antoinette knew why _she_ should be stunned, because Sirius had willingly defended her, but the waiter, Davey, looked almost comically stunned also. "Sirius Black, engaged?" he stuttered.

"It's not the end of the bloody world," Sirius grumbled, refusing now to look at either of them.

Davey grinned at her. "Beggin' your pardon, Miss, it's just, well, Sirius Black tying the knot . . . it's a lot to get a bloke's head over. I remember when we were in school. None of the girls would leave him alone. New girlfriend every month. Couldn't seem to quite decide which one he ought to stick with. He must be head over heels for you."

"It was an almost instantaneous reaction on my part." She put that dig in just for Sirius, he heard, his eyes narrowed. Good, he understood her then.

"I wonder," he said through gritted teeth, "if we can be permitted to order now."

The waiter bowed dramatically. "Davey Gudgeon, at your service."

Sirius prattled off a list of foods and dishes, some of which Antoinette had never heard of. But that wasn't what was shocking. What was shocking her was the amount of food he planned to eat. Sirius must have seen the look on her face because he smiled, like he had private joke, and said, "Haven't eaten much in the past three days. I'm trying to catch up."

That was a gibe only for her. Payback, she suspected, for her earlier taunt. She just barely stopped herself from drawing her hand out of his. Implying that he hadn't been able to eat since three days ago, which was when they'd first met, showed exactly what he thought of her.

Sirius noticed her small tug, smiled lazily. "Something the matter, love?"

Before she could answer he picked up her hand and drew it to his lips. She almost jumped when his hot tongue traced the groves in between her fingers. She flushed. "N-no. Nothing."

"What'll you have for dessert?" Davey said in a bemused tone. He'd obviously witnessed her embarrassment.

"Nothing for now, Davey." Sirius was still staring at her with that half smile. When Davey was gone he released her hand. "That wasn't so hard was it?" he whispered.

Antoinette shook her head because the situation required it, not because she felt like it. He had said he wouldn't kiss her on the mouth, but the other things he was doing . . . well she was now quite sure they were worse.

For the next hour they ate.

When her Shepherd's Pie, which had been surprisingly good, was cleaned off her plate Sirius offered her some of his food, but not without a price. He wished to feed her. From his _own_ fork! She put up with it the first couple of times, then had to beg off satiation. The way he would stare at her as he lifted the food to her mouth was all too knowing, all too intimate, all too erotic.

Sirius, however, was almost kicking himself. He had just made an already hazardous situation even more intimate. And his body was now so, tightened, he could hardly sit on the seat without shifting. Just looking at the way her mouth moved over his fork made him think of other things it could be useful for. When she said she was full he almost sighed in relief. He thought he ought to say something, anything, to pass the rest of the time, and to cover the awkwardness up. "You're staying at the Leaky Cauldron, I gather."

"Yes."

"Your parents, are they here now?"

She drew a breath and nodded gently.

She did everything with a kind of delicate poise, he realised. Never one to show emotion, never one to get angry. He almost felt like he should be provoking her on purpose; just to see if she could show righteous anger. _Later_, he promised himself, _when we're alone_. Right now he couldn't. The situation had gotten worse about half an hour ago.

Order suspected Death Eater, Augustus Rookwood, had walked in through the back entrance and sat down at the bar. Sirius had to hand it to Rookwood. He was doing his best not to appear as though he was staring at them, but little signs gave it away. Signs someone as observant as Sirius could pick up easily. Things ordinary people would think nothing of; Sirius took for as an excuse to be sly.

Rookwood, for example, would glance at the clock every few minutes with a thoughtful, yet bored frown on his face, as if he were just waiting for someone who, by lucky or unlucky coincidence, was turning out to be late for their meeting. That the clock just happened to sit right over his and Antoinette's table was just an added bonus. Of course that was why Sirius had picked this table in the first place. He and James had discussed and agreed earlier that if any Death Eaters happened to stroll into the pub to spy on him they would probably sit at the bar because it offered an almost unconstricted view of the rest of the room. Sirius would, of course, take pity on them by making the situation easier for them. The clock offered the perfect cover for that.

As Rookwood glanced at the clock for the fifth time Sirius stood up, mentally steading his head as he did so, walked around the table, sat down next to Antoinette, picked her up, and put her in his lap.

She went stiff as a plank.

He leaned forward with the pretence of kissing her neck, but really just wanting to whisper in her ear. "Relax," he gritted out. "There are some unsavoury characters here that would not approve of me if they knew all this was a farce. I need you to wrap your arms around my neck. That's it." He felt her hands lock themselves behind him. Inhaling the cool flowery scent of her hair was too dangerous for him right now, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

_Oh sweet Merlin save me!_ he thought, when she shifted slightly in his lap in order to wrap her arms more closely about his neck.

He didn't dare stare at her. He tried focusing his attention on her neck instead, but that only made him want to suck on the little pulse that was now beating quite fast. He nearly frowned. She was still frightened of him. But surely she must know that he would never physically hurt her? He might hate her guts, but he wasn't a woman beater. He cleared his throat and said, in a voice that would carry over half the room, "God, you smell wonderful!"

Mentally, he scowled. He wasn't one for exhibitionism. Well, there was that one time in the girls' bathroom with Emily Rose-Gerald from Ravenclaw, but that was a long time ago. He generally preferred to keep his sex life private.

At his words he felt her stiffen, then become almost boneless in his arms. She buried her face against his shoulder and breathed deep. "You're embarrassing me," she whispered.

"That's sort of the point, love."

He gave her credit. She didn't stiffen again.

"I want to go up to my room now. I think we have had a sufficient . . . date. No need to prolong an already awkward situation."

Sirius almost sighed in relief. "All right." He set her away from him, thanking Merlin again wizards could wear robes that made hiding uncomfortable reactions easier from the general public, as well as from one's fiancée.

They stood up in unison. He grabbed at her hand before she could think to place it out of his reach, his expression warning her not to resist. He felt a deep satisfaction at having got his way.

Holding themselves as two lovers would, hips and shoulders touching, him leaning into her, Sirius began to walk to the bar, trusting that she would follow. They stopped to the right of Rookwood, who was pretending to stare, besotted, at Antoinette.

But it might _not_ be pretend, Sirius admitted to himself. Nearly every man in the room had stared long at her throughout the last couple of hours at some point. He'd even seen Davey looking at her when her back was turned. The thought came to him suddenly that his betrothed inspired this reaction wherever she went, and the reason she was just standing there calm as you please was because she was used to it. She was used to men abandoning all sense of themselves to look like right bleeding prats simply because she was so . . . beautiful. And they _were_ actually staring. Truly, unequivocally staring at her with their lust-filled eyes; eyes that should not have had any business staring at her. That was _his_ job! A hot prickly feeling crawled into his chest. He had no idea what it was, but it felt unpleasant and damned uncomfortable.

_I am _not_ jealous!_

He paid Tom the bill for their meal, twined his fingers with hers once more, then led her out of the room and up the stairs. Two quick checks on either side of him revealed that no one was about. He released her hand instantly and put as much distance between them without looking like an utter arse. "I'll walk you to your room," he said curtly.

He started down the corridor and she sped-walked to catch up to him. "You have to see my parents. They will want to speak with you. To get to know you."

He stopped, turned, and pinned her on the spot with his velvet gaze. "Isn't it enough that I've just been confined to the worst two hours of my life pretending to be in love with you? I don't need anymore you and me time!"

She tried not to cringe at his tone, at his words. What a difference it was from the way he had been acting only two minutes ago! "They will be there as a buffer," she explained. "You need not even speak to me if you do not wish it. My parents will view that as your right, as proper pureblood behaviour. They will not think anything of it."

"Loving family you have."

"I can say the same," she returned immediately.

He simply said, "Can't argue with you," then reached forward and grabbed her hand again. "Show me where their bloody room is, then!"

It was she who led this time, but she didn't have to lead very far. Her parents' room was two doors away. She knocked lightly. Her father's voice came through the door in French. "Is that you, Antoinette?"

She spared a glance at repressive fiancé. "Oui. Sirius is with me as well, Papa."

"Very well." There was a light shuffling noise, as if someone was walking to the door. It opened and her father stood, tall, thin, and elegant, in robes of deep mahogany upon the threshold. "Sirius, so good of you to come."

Her fiancé managed to shock her when he replied, in perfect French, "Feels good to be here, Edmond."

"You speak French?" she blurted without thinking.

"You did not know?" her father said, eyes flitting between the couple.

Sirius raised a brow at her, as though he were encouraging her to muddle her way out of the situation she had inadvertently created. "Well, no," she stuttered.

"Well that is to be expected," Edmond said with a certain degree of calm. "You do not know each other all that well. This time before the wedding is your only chance to really do so, is it not? The only reason your Maman and I know is because Mrs Black told us. But please, come in. Tatienne is currently in the bathroom freshening up. Would you care for a drink, Sirius? I have an assortment. Any particular preferences?"

They sat down on the chaise lounge before the fireplace at the encouragement of Edmond. Sirius brought their joined hands together into his lap. "I have a certain fondness for Firewhiskey as of late."

Antoinette saw him glance discreetly at her from beneath his lashes and knew it was yet another taunt meant to get under her skin. She did _not_ give into the urge to tear her hand and from his and place it on her own lap. If she had he would know he had gotten to her. This way she had the upper hand, so to speak. That was how she saw it at least.

Edmond went to the drink cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses, then he set them both on the little table next to the sofa, and poured. He gave one to his future son-in-law and set the other to his lips.

He had been staring at the young couple before him, particularly their joint hands, and was a little distressed. He was an observant man, when it was put upon him to be, and he could clearly see that despite their "all's well" front, Toni and Sirius did not get along. Oh, it was nothing major that Edmond could see, just something in their manner that bespoke of a stiffness. He had originally dismissed it as formality, and the fact that they knew each other so little, but he now realised it was something more than that. As though they'd had a spat that they had yet to forgive each other for, only they never would. It was all very . . . distant.

But he did not despair yet. It was likely as he had thought before — they did not know each other and both were forced, somewhat, into this engagement. Yes there would be a little resentment between them. Edmond just hoped it would pass before they were due to wed.

"Oh Toni, you're back!" Tatienne said, joining them in the room. "And Sirius, wonderful to meet you again so soon."

Sirius released Antoinette's hand and stood up to kiss the offered cheek. When he sat back down he took her hand again, though this time he left them joined together in her lap rather than his.

"Have you thought about where you would like to hold the wedding?" Tatienne said instantly, taking the seat opposite. "I have asked your mother, Sirius, and she recommended the Ministry. Something about taking care of all legal ramifications at the same time, that way you do not have to be inconvenienced and apparate to the Ministry after the wedding. I told her that I agree, if you don't mind. The marriage contract can then be taken care of post haste. But I must admit I was a little, surprised, at Agrafelda's suggestion. She seems hastier to marry you off with all the proper legal accoutrements than we do Antoinette. It is as though she is somehow afraid you will not go through all the legal channels."

Sirius laughed bitterly in his head. So the old hag was afraid he would somehow manage to weasel out of their agreement, was she? She shouldn't have been. Sirius couldn't, even though he wanted to, desperately. Dumbledore had assured him of that. But he still did not enjoy talking about any subject that had his mother in it, but what the hell could he do? The only escape, as he saw it, was to use his dry wit. "I'm glad to know my mother has managed to behove herself, yet again, in my life. She seems to be doing that constantly lately."

Antoinette's hand tightened over his. Tatienne and Edmond would have gaped in surprise if they hadn't been raised better. But then Sirius heard a small half giggling half snorting sound come from his fiancé, and that seemed to set off both her parents.

_They were actually laughing! All bloody three of them._

Sirius was too surprised to be angry.

"Oh, Mr Black!" Edmond said, clapping lightly with one hand on the back of the other, "you are priceless! Evidently you like your mother as much as we do. Oh you're surprised? Do not be. We have known your mother a lot longer than you have, after all. She is a very, colourful, witch and we are not shy to say that she can be too colourful at times. Almost to the point of embarrassment. She is also very brash, crude, rude, insulting—"

"Edmond!" Tatienne reprimanded. "That is quite enough! Kindly remember that Sirius is still present. He may not like his mother, but he might _love_ her."

Sirius did laugh this time, though he was inclined to think all the Le Creux's were hypocrits. They were 'brash', 'crude', 'rude', and 'insulting' to muggleborns after all. And werewolves, too, apparently. But he still agreed with what they said of his mother. "No. I don't, Tatienne. Not even a little. I've hated her for the passed eleven years. Please, feel free to smear dirt on her name whenever you like, I won't stop you."

Edmond laughed. "You are simply delightful! Do you not think so, Toni?"

The young couple sat up a little at the abrupt change of subject, and at the somewhat alarming question. Sirius was surprised to discover he was actually curious about her answer. Antoinette was actually wondering _what_ she would answer. She finally settled on one. "When he wishes to be."

Sirius grasped her hand so tightly she thought her fingers would break.

"Ah-ha!" her father said softly, having not noticed Sirius' warning. "It's like that, is it, Toni?"

She looked at her lap, at his hand that was weaved around hers. "At times."

"At least you are honest about it."

Both she and Sirius looked up in surprise.

"Oh, do not look at me like that children! You think Tatienne and I have not noticed the distance between you? Both of you are trying for our sake, and we thank you for that, but you will see that, with time, you _will_ grow to care for each other, perhaps even love each other."

Antoinette wanted to shout that he was wrong, that they weren't trying for their sake, that they were only pretending because they hated each other, because Sirius needed her to pretend for whatever reason that was only known to him. But she merely smiled. When she turned her head to look at her fiancé she saw that he was doing the same thing.

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A/N: Just to let you know, Sirius has his own room at the Potter's place. I had this idea in my head that, since Sirius is so much like James' brother, he sometimes spends the weekends there, or stays over for a night simply because he is considered part of their family.

Bonus points to anyone who can guess why Sirius, who is a ladies man and should therefore be in tuned to female emotion, mistook Antoinette's shivering etc, for _fear_ of him, rather than desire.

I also put this question forth. You guys recognise Davey don't you? I've put in little hints, but it should be fairly obvious.

Thanks for the read and please review.


	7. Second Date

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot.

A/N: To answer the questions I put forth at the end of the last chapter. Davey Gudgeon is the boy who nearly lost his eye compliments of the Whomping Willow (as Remus tells Harry in POA). And why Sirius mistakes Toni's desire for fear and disgust of him is exactly the same reason she does. Sirius thinks that she is bad – as in bordering on being a Death Eater bad – like his mum. He thinks she doesn't like him because, like his Mum, he thinks that she thinks he's good.

On a side note, I just found out the _real_ names of Sirius's parents. They're Walburga and Orion (I'd previously been using Leonis and Agrafelda). I'm going to use them from now on. I'm also going to try and go back to the previous chapters and switch the names around so it's all consistent.

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**Chapter six: Second Date**

"–ing Nimbus. Course it's the best racing broom in the world–"

"–three Galleons–!"

"–during the race and market them. Daily Prophet would have a field–"

"–I said no, Jeremy! Put that down at once–!"

"–OOOOWWWWW! Blasted bludger hit me in the knackers!"

Antoinette blinked at that last one and turned her head slightly in order to better see the commotion. A pinstriped-suited man with an overabundance of hair gel was crouching by the magazine stall and clutching his groin with an exceedingly painful expression on his face. A shorter man by his side, also hair-gelled, was struggling to put a bludger back into its box. The bludger was not being very cooperative.

"It aint doin' it proper Reggie!" said the bludger man, still struggling. "It aint wantin' to go back in!"

The aforementioned Reggie compressed his lips so tightly that they resembled a white line, and groaned. He didn't seem as if he was listening to his companion at all.

"I need some help with this, Reg! I've got m' hands tied with this and I can't reach for m' wand!"

Reggie whimpered, still clutching his crotch and looking like he would very much like to be somewhere a lot more comfortable. He did, however, make an effort to lift his wand, aim a curse at the bludger, miss, then drop his wand hand again, groaning.

Antoinette frowned and looked about. The vast crowd of wizards and witches were scurrying along the grassy path, not seeming to notice or not seeming to care about the two wizards and the bludger off to their sides. Others still were shopping at nearby stalls and looked disinclined to offer a lending wand. Stifling a sigh Antoinette weaved her way through the crowd of passers-by and over to the magazine stall.

"Perhaps you should have that looked at," she offered kindly when she reached them, not daring to stare down. "Apparate to St Mungo's, I believe the name is. I am certain that your friend can handle the bludger by himself."

Reggie cast her a grateful look, and before his friend finished his "Hey, wait a mo!'" he had disapparated.

The short friend rounded on Antoinette. "Now who's gonna help me get this bludger back in?"

"I will," she answered promptly.

He blinked. "Oh. Righ' then. Well, you'll need to petrify it first; otherwise it'll be your knackers what it'll get hit. I mean, er . . . ," he trailed off, as if just realising that Antoinette was a woman and so did not have the pre-articulated "knackers".

Antoinette got the gist and stopped the man before he hurt himself from embarrassment. "I understand, Monsieur . . .?"

The man blinked, grunted, then said over the still struggling bludger, "Oh, righ'. The name's Pickle. Pickle Dolger. But m'mates call me Pickly. I'd offer you m'hand but as you can see . . ."

Bemused slightly at the very Britishesque name, and at his gentle prodding, Antoinette calmly extricated her wand from her right sleeve pocket and petrified the bludger. It stopped it struggle to escape at once.

Pickly, looking hugely relieved, quickly locked it in its box, straightened, looked at Antoinette, and gaped. "Blimey," he breathed. "You're beautiful!"

She blinked. "Oh," was all she could think to say. Not that she was shocked at having been called beautiful before, because she had ―so many times that it was becoming embarrassing, frankly― but because it had come so out of the blue. "Merci," she mumbled.

Pickly went pink suddenly and looked down. "Would you, I mean, would you like to go–? "

"She's not going to go anywhere with you because she's engaged to be married. To me. Now kindly scamper off."

Poor Pickle Dolger had "scampered" even before Sirius had finished his sentence ―but not before grabbing his box of bludgers.

Antoinette turned around, slowly. She had gotten used to her fiancé coming up behind her unexpectedly so the thudding of her heart ceased a lot faster now. As always, her first sight of him sent a jolt of something wild to blossom in her belly, despite the fact she'd seen him not five minutes ago.

"Here," he growled, thrusting his right hand at her. A beautiful hand. "They didn't have pumpkin juice so I got you a Butterbeer."

She accepted the flask with a nod.

His jaw flexed. Breath hissed over teeth. "Stop staring at me like that."

_Like what? _Was it possible she'd actually shown him . . .? Mortified, she dropped her gaze to the ground, put the flask to her lips, and swallowed. Hard. A second later she was coughing.

Sirius muttered something like, "Silly chit," and proceeded to pound her back with the flat of his palm.

After a few minutes of pounding she drew breath to rasp, "Thank you, but you can stop now."

Sirius agreed wholeheartedly. Touching her, even this un-intimate, almost parodical pounding of her back, was giving his body ideas. He needed to clear some space in the air between them before he was tempted to put his hand somewhere else. Like her rump.

The thought brought forth a mental groan.

He cleared his throat. "The race is going to start in twenty minutes. I suggest we get going. Otherwise we won't be able to ―what are you doing!" His eyes, which had been skimming over the crowd as he spoke, had somehow found their way to her lips, which, he saw, were wrapped lusciously around the tip of the bottle.

She tipped the bottle back in enough to say, "What?" Then her tongue peeked out to lick the tiny drops of moisture on her bottom lip.

He turned away sharply, eyes closed. "It's nothing," he said tightly, ignoring the jolt under his robes. "We'd best get going."

He grabbed her hand before she could think to put it by her side, then manoeuvred them through the crowd. _Mother, I hope you rot in an early grave_, he thought sourly. After another moment he extended the thought. _And Dumbledore_.

"So, what exactly is this annual broom race?" he heard her ask.

_At last something to talk about!_

"Exactly what it implies." They paused for a moment to avoid bumping into an enthusiastic youngster, then continued. "It's an annual broom race. In this case around the British Isles. Begins in Hexam in the north, and goes all the way to Southampton, with a brief stop in Birmingham for refreshments."

She walked by his side but he didn't dare look at her yet. "But how does the audience play into it all. Surely we aren't going to, to fly after the competitors? If, as I suspect, we are not, then what is the point of having an audience?"

He stopped walking and looked down at her. She jerked a little to avoid hitting him.

"This year the course is more hazardous than in previous years," he explained, staring into her lovely eyes. "We either apparate or portkey to all the appointed stops so we can be there in the couple of seconds it takes for the competitors to pass by, or we stay here and wait for them to return. It's going to take more than a couple of days for them to do so, and I don't think you or I will want to prolong this date anymore than we have to. I suggest we stay only the one day to mill about and see all the sights."

He'd paused when he'd said the word 'date'. Antoinette exhaled; surprised she wasn't feeling the bitter disappointment that such a statement from him usually brought her. Perhaps it was because he had said it without his usual nasty zeal. He'd almost sounded bored. As if he _had_ to say it.

"Sirius?" she began, but stopped when he looked as if he'd like to continue walking. But he didn't. He turned back to stare at her instead. "Yes, Toni?"

The crowd continued to move around their prone figures as she told herself not to stiffen. He'd persisted in calling her that ever since he'd heard her father do so, and Antoinette was not inclined to tell him to stop. What would he care that only her very close family called her that, and no one else. What would he care that it annoyed her when he continued to do so. It would only give him more ammunition against her. She somehow suspected he knew how she felt, which was why he persisted.

"I need to use the nearest facilities."

He blinked. Then straightened. "Right." Perusing the grassy expanse upon which innumerable stalls of all sorts of diverse goods were being sold, Sirius found the bathroom at last. "It's just over there," he pointed. "I'll walk you."

They came eventually upon a decrepit looking ―there was no other word for it― shack, squeezed between a Quidditch supply stall and a trinket selling cottage-shaped stall. Antoinette knew from previous experience that the outside appearance of something did not necessarily reflect the inside in the wizarding world, so there was no hesitation in her step as she opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside.

Except Sirius had yet to let go of her hand.

She turned slightly and glanced at him, then at their joined hands, hoping he'd get the message.

With only a slight frown between his brows, he did.

She closed the door behind her, then leaned against it. Expelling a relieved breath, she looked around. Already there were a few witches trundling about. There was, at least, fifty gleaming white toilet stalls positioned alongside fifty mirrors. The place smelled faintly of pinewood. It was a pleasant scent.

Five minutes later Antoinette stepped out of the bathroom and onto the grassy expanse once more.

She looked around for a moment, then blinked in confusion.

Sirius was gone.

He was not in the surrounding crowd either. She stood on her toes to give her more lift and scanned over the tops of people's heads for his familiar midnight robes and elegantly swept back hair. Frowning when she still couldn't spot him she let her feet carry her weight once more.

She was just about to head into the crowd in hopes of somehow coming upon him unexpectedly when a group of elderly wizards that had been chatting exuberantly in front of her decided to part ways, and she saw him.

He was on the opposite side leaning casually against a support post of a stall that seemed to be selling tatty looking robes. He was smiling. Laughing actually. He looked so beautiful in that moment that she had to catch her breath. She started to smile with him, purely a reflex action, until she noticed just what he was smiling at.

Her blood froze.

In front of him was a woman. Antoinette couldn't see much more beyond the back of her, but even that was enough to ascertain that the woman's figure was attractive encased in blue silk robes that swept loose and fluttering over her limbs, and that she must have had an attractive face too. Sirius would never have been smiling like that at her otherwise; like she was his entire world. Like whatever she was saying was the funniest he had ever heard.

Without doubt, Antoinette knew she was jealous.

She paused a moment to reflect on this emotion.

She didn't think she'd ever been jealous before. She was an only child after all, and so, did not experience the competitiveness that most siblings did when vying for their parents' attention. She had never really liked that many boys before either, so she did not experience the accompanying jealousy that usually came with seeing the boy she admired talking to a girl that was not Antoinette.

She was bemused, and a little shocked, that it was happening to her now. With that realisation came an epiphany. She knew now that her feelings for Sirius, her feelings of desire and lust, were strong enough to incite her to jealousy, and anger, because he, her fiancé, _hers_, was flirting with some random woman.

_But_, said the annoying little voice in the back of her mind, _what if she isn't random? What if she's his lover! You yourself thought it before. Someone who looks that good would not be wont for company. Women probably throw themselves at him all the time._

Antoinette agreed completely.

Her shoulders straightened seemingly on their own accord as she strolled through the crowd of shoppers over to the other side. She had deliberately strolled in a direction that would place her directly behind and to the right of Sirius, so neither he nor his lady love would spot her until _she_ chose to be spotted. That way she could listen in without being observed, or without the woman thinking she was some hopeless, pathetic eavesdropper. Placing herself behind the support post Sirius was leaning on, she listened.

". . . doing well. He had a tickle in his throat the other day, I think, but Lily whipped up some pepper-up and he's as good as new now."

"What about James? He had a black eye last week."

"Oh that?" Sirius laughed. "I, er, got a bit shirty with him in one of my Firewhiskey induced hazes. He knew not to bother me but he was a bit drunk himself at the time."

"I didn't notice any bruises on you, though."

"Lily arrived before it could get too out of hand."

"So why didn't he magick it away?"

The conversation continued for some time in this vein until Antoinette began to feel a little foolish. Quite obviously Sirius and the mysterious woman were not lovers. More like friendly acquaintances that knew each other through other friendly acquaintances. Sirius even inquired the health for someone named Neville, whom, Antoinette presumed after listening to the answer filled with motherly pride, was the woman's son.

Now assured that Sirius was not having a secret liaison, she planned to walk back to the bathroom stalls and await him there. She planned to do that, but didn't get around to it because the whispered words, "When's the next meeting?" froze her.

The woman answered, just as quietly. "In two days, I think. Dung told me about it."

Her heart thudding Antoinette leaned closer to catch Sirius's reply, her ears straining. "I can see why you're unsure. I wouldn't trust anything Dung says either ―unless he wasn't drunk when he said it?"

"No, no, he was quite sober . . . I think."

He laughed.

"So, Sirius, tell me about this fiancée of yours? Everyone's dying to meet her, you know."

_They are?_

"I know," came the strained reply.

The woman laughed. "You needn't look like that; your scowl doesn't work on me. But what's the problem? Lily tells me she's beautiful. Or was she lying to me?"

"Of course she wasn't lying! Toni's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Antoinette blinked at his suddenly serious tone. _I am?_

"Oh _Toni_ is, is she?" said the woman. "Well you must introduce me at the wedding, then."

"You don't need to wait that long, she's here."

"What d'you mean, 'she's here'?"

"I mean exactly that. I've brought her here with me to view the race. Or at least the start of the race."

"You mean to say she's been here all this time? I hope you didn't leave the poor girl alone just to come talk to me."

"She's in the bathroom," came the grumble.

"So what?"

"You know how long it takes for women to―" He sighed. "I'll see if she's finished."

"Don't forget to come back and introduce us."

_Dieu!_ Antoinette cursed inwardly. The only way she'd be able to beat Sirius now was to apparate into the bathrooms, but that would leave a telltale popping sound as she left, also when she arrived, and already she could see him weaving his way steadily through the dense crowd. There was nothing for it; she would have to do it.

Eyes screwed in concentration she felt the tight feeling of a cork being compressed into a bottle of champagne encompass her body, before ―_pop!_

She arrived to the sound of screeching, the feeling of something squashy.

"_Dieu!"_ she cursed again, this time aloud.

She extricated herself from the poor soul she'd landed on, praying for it not to be an elderly witch or a young child.

It wasn't.

It was quite a robust woman.

"I am so sorry, madame," she pleaded, hauling the witch up by her arms ―an effort that left her gasping for breath, and her own arms straining.

"I should say so!" the woman snapped. She jerked away from Antoinette and straightened her hat, the pointed tip of which had gone lopsided and crinkled. "You don't apparate inside bathrooms, girl! Didn't your instructors teach you that? You could have landed on a toilet. Or worse, on someone _sitting_ on a toilet!"

"I'm so sorry," she said again.

The woman harrumphed, opened the door, and stalked out ―straight into Sirius.

They toppled. Sirius backwards, the woman forwards. She screeched. Sirius cursed. Antoinette laughed. She simply could not help it. The sight of her masculinely graceful fiancé, limbs flailing in an effort to _stop_ falling, but not succeeding, with a large woman on rolling on top of him, her robes hustled up to reveal ―Antoinette gasped and quickly pointed her wand. The woman's robes were yanked down by an invisible force― the sight was enough to make even her Aunt Helena laugh.

"Bloody hell!" Sirius growled. He rolled the large witch off of him. She instantly scrambled up, shot him a glare, and marched into the crowd, muttering, "Never, in all my forty one years . . ."

Her fiancé was left sitting on his haunches with his legs spread out in front of him, looking thoroughly irate and thoroughly confused.

He looked up at her as she stepped into the space before him.

"Don't you dare laugh," he snarled.

She smiled, "You're a little late to be telling me that."

He scowled at her, then shot up.

She swallowed the squeak that built in her throat at this lithe movement. She swallowed another one when he came to loom over her. This didn't disconcert her as much as he must have hoped because she was tall herself ―her head reaching to just below his nose― so he didn't look as intimidating to her as he must have been trying to be.

He grabbed her hand. "Let's go or we're going to miss the start."

As they weaved their way through the crowded marketplace Antoinette could not help thinking if Sirius had forgotten to introduce her to his friend on purpose, or by accident.

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"RACERS READY! STEADY ON―GREAT MERLIN! MCCUDGEON, CONTROL YOUR BROOM, WILL YOU –? IT'S GOING INTO THE BLEECHERS! EVERYBODY DUCK . . .! _Ahem,_ WELL IT LOOKS LIKE HE'S NOT GOING TO BE COMPETETING ANYMORE. THE REST OF YOU LOT LINE UP AGAIN . . . AND SOMEBODY TAKE MCCUDGEON TO THE INFIRMARY. LOOKS LIKE A NASTY KNOCK UPSIDE THE HEAD. COMPETITORS, ON MY WHISTLE . . . THREE. TWO. ONE. _Shhhhhhhrrrrrrr_!"

The announcer's magically magnified whistle exploded over the moor and hands were quick to be thrown over ears.

A child in the front row started crying.

"OOPSIE. SORRY ABOUT THAT."

"When I find whoever's commentating I'm going to kill him," Alice Longbottom said, hands fisting on her lap.

"Not if I find him first," Sirius drawled, extracting his palms from over his ears.

"Antoinette dear, are you all right? You look positively green."

Antoinette smiled at the concerned look in Alice's eyes, and lied. "Yes. It's just . . . I think that that Butterbeer I had earlier was a little . . . not good."

"Oh dear. Perhaps you should think about going home?"

Sirius eyed her speculatively. "Are you certain it was the Butterbeer and not something else you drank, or ate for that matter? I'm quite sure they place preserving charms on the Butterbeer stocks."

"Oh leave her alone, Sirius," said Alice before Antoinette could come up with an answer. "Must you be suspicious about everything? If she says it was the Butterbeer, than I believe her. You should take her home. Or better yet, come to my house. I've some household potions I give to Neville when he's got an upset stomach."

"No!" said Sirius sharply. Alice stared at him. He amended, "That is, we have a previous engagement. In fact," he continued, staring at a supposed watch on his hand, "we'd best get going. We were only going to stay until the start of the race anyway. No point hanging around now that it's over."

"If I didn't know better, Sirius Black," Alice began, a disproving frown between her brows, "I'd say you were overly anxious to _not_ show off your lovely fiancée ―or even let your friends meet her."

He stiffened. Said softly, "Was I that obvious?"

Alice gaped and quickly glanced at Antoinette, as if to judge the hurt reaction such callousness was sure produce.

She revealed nothing. His attitude had become an everyday sort of thing for her.

"We're leaving," he informed them, voice clipped. Grabbing her hand he spared a parting nod for Alice who, snapping out of her shocked state, waved in return. Antoinette just had time to answer Alice's smile with one of her own before Sirius propelled them out of the stands and into the marketplace once more. He jostled her behind the toilet shack, then released her.

"Why did you lie to your friend?" she asked.

"Why did you lie about the Butterbeer?" he instantly shot back.

Not wanting to admit that she'd lied because she'd gotten almost physically sick over the recent revelations her thoughts had led to about Sirius, she asked her question again.

Surprisingly, he didn't ask her his question, but answered with one of his own. "About what?"

"That we have a previous engagement."

"I didn't. And we do. The Potter's have invited us over for an early dinner. They'd like to meet you properly. Why, I have no idea."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" It was annoying her that he wasn't looking up at her. Instead, the grass seemed to have captured his attention. _Why wouldn't he? What was wrong with him?_

Sirius was in such pain he thought he would combust. He knew if he were to look at her right now he would not be responsible for his actions. Her scent (some sort of exotic perfume) was clugging his senses, playing havoc with his brain. Her palm, which he found fit so perfectly in his, had been so soft, so feminine. He'd wanted to bite at that supple flesh, and still did. And her eyes . . . they got him every time. His jaw clenched with frustration. He needed some space alone. Some space where she wasn't. The bathroom gave him the perfect excuse.

"We'll leave in five minutes. I need the lavatories." With that said he stalked into the Men's room.

He stood leaning by the mirror sink, sloshing cool water on his face and neck. That was better. That was a lot better. He was in control now.

He evaporated the excess water with a flick of his wand, drew a deep breath, stepped out, and saw her―and was instantly hit with such a jolt of wonder his steps almost faulted. She wasn't even doing anything out of the ordinary, merely standing where he'd left her. But the dipping sun, the gold redness of it, was glowing through her elegantly tall form. Her white-blond curls, piled wispily on top of her head, were transformed into a halo of gold. Her robes, currently a light amethyst tone, glowed like purple jewels. She was facing away from him, staring into the surrounding mist of the moors. She looked like some fairy queen come to steal away hapless mortals. He could just make out her pert nose, so feminine. Her feathery lashes, glowing brown-gold. Her mouth, full and suck― Sirius stopped his dangerous thoughts as soon as he felt the answering movement under his robes.

"Damn you, mother," he murmured, a little half-heartedly. He also thought that he might perhaps be getting used to the reaction she induced in him. He cleared his throat and stalked the couple of metres towards her. "Are you ready?"

She turned completely around and stared at him through narrowed sapphire eyes. He groaned inwardly. "Yes."

"Good," he rasped. He closed his eyes―

"Wait!"

They opened at her tone. "What?"

"I don't know where this place is. How will I apparate? In case it's slipped your mind, one cannot apparate to a place they have never been before."

He stared at her. Damn it! He hadn't thought of that. How were they going to . . . ? He groaned, aloud this time, at having realised the only option available to them.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Does it bloody well matter?" he said nastily. "Now come here!"

"Pardon?"

He sneered at the look in her eyes. He was beginning to realise that all her emotions were displayed in her eyes, for the entire world to see. He just had to interpret them. "Side-along apparition," was all he induced to say.

Her lips formed an "oh".

He waited patiently until she came. No way was he going to move in anyway. It would be too much for him to handle at the moment. The thought of putting his arms around her lovely form . . .

She walked until she reached him. He stiffened when she put her arm through his, then sighed internally when he realised that was all she was inclined to do.

He didn't give her any warning. He just apparated. He did, however, hear her gasp of uncomfortable surprise right before and right after the teleportation was complete.

They had arrived.

The Potter house on Godric's Hollow was not overly large, per se, but it was larger than average. Two storeys (or should that be four storeys) with a cellar and an attic. It was built of fine stone, or brick, or something that made it look medieval as well as Victorian. It had that quite elegance about it that suggested old money, but that the owner of which was simply too eccentric, or too nice, to be arrogant about. This was influenced even more by the small vines of flowers that grew over its surface.

The surrounding front garden was a hive of hedges, tall grasses, oak trees . . . It was, Sirius reflected, rather like the house. Busy, but somehow well-organized at the same time.

They stood now just outside the small gate.

He felt Antoinette's hand (which still rested on him) trail down the length of his arm, his elbow, and finally slip into his.

He shivered, then, remembering himself, jerked back. "What are you doing?"

She looked puzzled. "I thought. . ."

He smiled, not nicely. "We don't have to pretend in front of my friends. They know I don't like you, or our situation. Remember?"

Her eyes widened. Then blinked. And blinked again. She looked away rapidly.

He frowned. _Was she, perhaps, crying? _He scoffed inwardly. It was more likely that he'd gotten her so furious with him she'd had to turn away, or risk countering _his_ anger.

Antoinette, however, could not believe that she'd let go of her emotions like that. She didn't know what had happened, but suspected it had something to do with the casual tone Sirius had delivered his little insult in. Otherwise, why was she trying not to cry now?

He opened the gate and walked in without offering for her to do so first, as was the traditional way. She wasn't surprised.

Following him down the narrow dusty path she almost rammed into him as he stopped abruptly. He merely glanced back, said, "Watch where you're going, will you?" in that bored, drawling tone of his, then knocked on the door.

They didn't have to wait long. It opened, revealing James Potter.

He was attractive, Antoinette realised as she got a good look at him up close for the first time. Very attractive. He also, she noted, looked quite a bit like Sirius, with his jet black hair and tall, hard-boned frame. But then all the pureblood families were interrelated in some way. It was highly possible that they shared a common ancestor. Even Sirius's mother was related to Antoinette's family. Though, _very_ distantly.

"Padfoot," James Potter said happily, shaking the aforementioned's hand.

"Prongs," her fiancé responded, just as cheerfully.

Then the bespectacled hazel eyes turned her way and visibly warmed, "and Mademoiselle Le Creux. My wife will be thrilled that you've consented to come."

He offered his hand and she took it, then he quickly ushered them inside. Antoinette was left wondering just what in the whole of Merlin's wizarding world a "padfoot" and "prongs" were. She decided it must have been some sort of secret code greeting between longstanding friends, and left it at that.

Once they entered the small, ornate entrance hall, Sirius elevated his nose. "What's that smell?" he asked.

Antoinette had been too busy paying attention to the hard expanse of smooth-shaven neck he'd revealed to notice any such strange smell, but hearing his question she sniffed ―and was pleasantly surprised to note that she knew what it was. James Potter beat her to the answer. "It's some sort of French dish Lily cooked up especially for tonight. To impress our guest, you know." He sent a wink her way.

Sirius cast her a frown ―she had no idea why― and said, "Yes, James, but what's it called?"

"Have positively no idea, Sirius," James grinned, seemingly unmindful of his friend's sudden glower. "Something beginning with B. 'Booyon' or something."

"Bouillabaisse," Antoinette offered.

"That's it!"

"You mean it's a stew?" Sirius asked with all the aplomb of one who found such things distasteful. "I was hoping for something with a little more substance. Like pork chops, or roast lamb, or even bangers and mash will do."

"Now you're just being difficult," James responded. "And we have all those things ―except bangers and mash. Well," he amended, looking thoughtful, "Harry might have mash, but I doubt he'll want to share it with you."

"You're the regular joker today, James," was what Sirius said to that. "Besides, Harry loves me. Of course he'll want to share with his 'Pad Pad'."

James scowled. "I think you've forgotten to add an extra 'Pad' at the end there."

Sirius grinned slyly. "Just like Harry forgets to add an extra 'Dada' when speaking to you?"

James flushed, brows meeting. "You utter —_thing_!"

Sirius laughed. "You can't even finish an insult properly." He sighed. "I know you love me, James."

James stared at him for a full thirty seconds, then grinned. "Of course I do, mutt. Wouldn't put up with you otherwise. But come on; dining room's this way. Yes I know you know that, Sirius, I'm only saying it for the benefit of Miss Le Creux." Before Antoinette had a chance to tell him her first name would be fine as an address, James continued. "Dinner isn't quite ready yet because Lily wanted to cook the muggle way. Why does she bother? No, don't answer that."

Antoinette wondered why the house elf's hadn't cooked. Perhaps Lily Potter had wanted to show of her culinary skills?

As James led them down the narrow corridor, passed portraits who waved at them (Antoinette drew back a little when a portrait of a moustached man wearing armour wriggled his eyebrows at her in what he obviously thought was a charming manner), and into the dining room at last, Sirius spoke, "Have the others arrived yet?"

"_You're_ the one who came early," James retorted.

"I take it that's a 'no' then?"

James chuckled at the dry tone.

Antoinette was finding this exchange between the two friends fascinating. It gave a whole new perspective to her on how Death Eaters behaved. Because she knew now that Sirius definitely was one. So was Alice Longbottom. And in extension, James Potter must be also because Alice Longbottom had mentioned him. Though, Antoinette did find it a bit hard to believe that sweet round-faced woman who so obviously adored her son as being Death Eater material. But then why had she spoken of a secret meeting? But, to be a Death Eater, Antoinette assumed one must learn how to be sly, how to pretend, how to put up an act in public.

The only one who wasn't putting up an act, she was sure, was Sirius. He made no bones about hating her after all. He'd obviously sensed some good in her and didn't like it. James Potter, however, was the best actor in the world. Or perhaps she was wrong? Perhaps he wasn't a Death Eater? Perhaps the meeting Alice Longbottom mentioned had nothing to do with Death Eaters at all? Perhaps it was something as simple as a crockery party? Perhaps . . . perhaps she ought to stop driving herself **_fou, détraqué_** with all these "perhaps's"?

James told them to take whatever seats at the table suited their fancy, then went away to "check on Harry".

She blinked in surprise when Sirius took the seat next to hers. He simply grinned at her confusion (her heart sped up), plucked a deliciously red apple from the ceramic centrepiece in the middle of the table, and bit into it. He seemed to be in high spirits for someone who just a few minutes ago had proclaimed he didn't like her. Had it been his friend's influence? She'd like to think so. It meant someone could reason with him at least. It meant he _could_ be reasoned with. But no, she suspected it was more the light banter they'd shared ―something only longstanding friends could get away with.

Still munching he reached toward the bowl again, stole another red apple, then held it under her nose, eyebrow raised.

Too surprised already to be even more surprised she palmed the offered apple with a small nod of thanks.

Except Sirius had yet to let go of it.

She sighed internally, then carried out the same action she'd performed in front of the bathroom at the races.

He responded in kind.

She was slightly giddy at the thought that here was something that could be the start of a secret code between them; well possibly not _that_ far along. Just a secret acknowledgment that let him know. . . what? That she was a little uncomfortable with what he was doing? Whatever it was, it was quite . . . pleasant. A feeling she was certain could never have been associated with Sirius, but there it was. With two gestures and an action, a split-second truce had settled between them. It was enough for now.

As she bit into the juicy apple James Potter walked back into the room, his son in his arms.

Sirius stood up so fast she had to lean back to avoid his elbow.

He stayed there until James was standing next to him, plucked the little boy from his arms without even asking, then sat back down.

Harry didn't appear to object. Throughout it all he'd been grinning and holding out his little arms; arms which were now wrapped as far as they could go around her fiancé's neck.

"Harry," Sirius said shortly, in greeting.

"Pad," Harry said, just as seriously.

"So you're down to one now are you?"

James snorted, rolled his eyes, and said while walking out, "You never miss an opportunity, do you?"

"Not with something as important as this," was Sirius's retort.

As Sirius and Harry began to play (consisting mostly of Harry pulling at Sirius's hair and Sirius tickling his belly in response) Antoinette blinked again in surprise. This was so incongruous to what she'd experienced of Sirius's behaviour that she found herself almost squinting in order to find something wrong with the picture.

What she saw was even more confusing. As with his father, she'd never bothered to look at the babe properly last time she'd seen him (being too flummoxed over Sirius's nastiness) but she got a good look at him now. Black unruly curls graced the one-year-old's head. Extraordinarily beautiful large emerald eyes (inherited from his mother) peeked out from under them. A red little mouth, rosy cheeks, creamy skin . . . he was going to be quite the most stunning specimen when he grew up. The combination of the green eyes and black hair proved that entirely ―even without all his other distinctive features.

But what she found confusing was Sirius's reaction to Harry itself. He acted like Harry's father. Kissing the babe's cheeks with such loud smacks of his lips that they left red patches on the smooth pale skin ―but Harry merely giggled delightedly.

He even pointed to his lips at one point, said, "Now what about a kiss for _me_? Fair's fair after all," and the babe would spread his tiny-fingered hands over either side of Sirius's face and touch lips. The gesture was so beautiful and so innocent of a baby to do (not knowing how to kiss properly yet) that Antoinette felt a tight constriction in her chest and a lump form in her throat.

Sirius's actions spoke of a familiarity that only parents shared with their children, and vice versa. Usually coming about because parents were the ones who spent the most time with their children. Harry was obviously very comfortable with Sirius. Someone who was simply James Potter's best friend should not have that kind of attached familiarity with Harry. He'd have to be almost literally living underfoot to have one.

A loud knocking on the front door interrupted her thoughts. A thudding of footsteps soon followed as either James, or Lily (she suspected the former) rushed toward it.

A muttering of three voices sounded in the corridor outside. A chuckle. A snort. Gentle ribbing. Seconds later three wizards entered the dining room, only two of whom Antoinette had met before. She found herself peering at the third man, who was quite a bit shorter than his companions (and quite a bit rounder), and who James introduced as Peter Pettigrew. He had tiny eyes of a pale blue colour and blondish hair. She noticed, with a start, that he was staring at her. When he noticed she had noticed he looked away extremely quickly.

Assuming it was because he'd been caught up by her looks, like so many other men (her fiancé excluded) she moved her perusal to wizard number two. He, whom James introduced as Remus Lupin, she had seen at the Ministry. He took the seat next to Peter Pettigrew which put him opposite her, smiled a little uncertainly in greeting, then started up a conversation on Quidditch with the rest. She remembered that he was a werewolf, so maybe that was why he looked so uncomfortable. He had tanned skin, light brown hair and eyes, and a few days growth of beard. He certainly was striking. In a rugged, golden sort of way.

Antoinette preferred her men dark.

". . . of course Chudley Cannons aren't even going to make it through their first match, so we can discount them for next year's World Cup," James was saying. "Pride of Portree might be in the running this year. They have a good chance with that new keeper of their's. What's his name? Kingsbutt?"

"Kingsrear," Sirius supplied.

"That's it. He ought to be . . ."

Antoinette tuned them out. She did not exactly hate Quidditch, but could never summon up enough passion to participate in a conversation about it. Besides, except for Sirius, (and even that was stretching it) she did not know these men well enough to try putting her opinion on the table. Though, the French team, Quiberon Quafflepunchers, was quite good she had to admit, though their robes were certainly distasteful. They had a new captain whom Antoinette knew personally, being a few years ahead of her at Beauxbatons. She was Antoinette's tutor in first year ―_how to ride a broom without falling off of it and making a complete spectacle of herself_ tutor, because Antoinette had been horrid. Now she was simply passable.

". . . know what's taking so long? I'm starving. You know, I told her to let her wand do all the work, but no, she wants to do it the "muggle" way. She never did before."

"She's a woman," Sirius said. "They're known for their fickleness."

Remus Lupin cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Antoinette.

Not wanting to give Sirius a chance to say something derogatory ―for Remus Lupin, whether he knew it or not, had just given him an opportunity that she knew he could not resist utilizing― she jumped in with the first thing that popped into her mind. And considering the subject matter it hadn't been hard to think of. "Does Mrs Potter need help in the kitchen?"

James, standing before everyone at the table, looked puzzled for a moment. "Erm . . . well that's probably a good idea."

Antoinette was standing up before he'd finished his sentence. "And the kitchen is . . .?" she prodded.

Looking bemused, James pointed to the archway at the end of the room. "Go into that room and turn right through the double doors."

She inclined her head. "Merci."

As she left the table and walked through the archway an unpleasant feeling settled between her shoulders. She turned her head to see if her suspicions were correct and saw Sirius watching her with a languid curiosity in his expression. Sighing, she merely turned back and strolled through the double doors, leaving her fiancé and his fluctuating emotions behind ―at least for a few minutes.

The kitchen was large, made of stone, and had an enormous wooden bench in the middle with everything from milk to dirt on it. Admittedly the dirt was peat and pushed off to one side.

Lily Potter was standing before the oven which was sitting under a window that depicted the side garden, mixing something with a wooden spoon. Again, Antoinette knew what that something was by the smell. A soufflé. If not mixed carefully and correctly the finished product would look deflated. It was obvious that the redheaded witch had tried five times (unsuccessfully) to make her soufflé. A fact which was evident by the five dessert dishes clattered on either side of the oven.

Antoinette received a mild shock when Lily scrunched up her fists, grabbed the bowl and wooden spoon, and dumped them in the sink. Then she turned the cold water on full blast and proceeded to scrub as hard as she could.

"The instructions make it look easier than it is."

"Oh," Lily whirled around, visibly shocked. "Miss Le Creux! Oh I'd feared ―never mind." A bright red blossomed on her cheekbones.

"I thought you might need some assistance."

"What?" Lily frowned, stared down at the sink. "Oh yes."

"There is no need to be ashamed," Antoinette thought it good to point out. "That you can cook at all without a wand is commendable. Even with a wand I burn food. Though, admittedly, it has been ten years since I've tried."

"That means you were seven. That hardly makes me feel better."

Antoinette smiled a little at the tired tone and the downcast eyes. Truly, the woman was exceptionally beautiful. Like her son, the most distinctive things about her were her eyes and hair ―which, quite unusually unlike other redheads, who were more prone to being ginger in colour, was blood red.

"The one thing I do know how to make exceptionally well is soufflé," was all Antoinette said.

Those green eyes locked onto hers instantly.

"I taught myself to learn it because I was feeling bored. It seemed the easiest dish to learn. I even developed my own recipe after a time."

Lily smiled.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"So, how's it been down your end these past one and half weeks, Padfoot? Discounting attendant company, of course."

Sirius raised the glass of Butterbeer to his lips (James hadn't let him at the Firewhiskey on account of what Lily would do), took a drink, and contemplated Remus's question. They didn't want him to talk about Toni, because, he suspected, they thought he would start off on another rant about the unfairness of life etcetera and so forth. But they didn't know that he'd finally accepted his situation, and his fiancée. He didn't have to like it, but he'd accepted it. Firewhiskey was helping him accept it even more.

All three, even Harry who was currently playing with his shoelaces on the floor beside the table, were looking at him expectantly. Expressions ranging from curiosity to wariness to impatience to extreme red-facedness (compliments of Harry and what his nappy was being subjected to).

Sirius took another drink. "Nothing much, aside from visiting my mother along with my soon to be in-laws two days ago to work out all the necessary reception details."

"Bet that was fun."

"You're going to have one then?" This, from Peter.

"Tatienne and Edmond insisted it will make us feel properly wed."

"They're paying for it?" James asked, pouring the jug of Butterbeer into his glass.

Sirius nodded. "It's tradition, apparently, for the father of the bride to pay for the reception."

"I wouldn't know."

"You don't know much, James," Sirius retorted.

James rolled his eyes at that. "I meant because my father in-law was nonexistent by the time Lily and I were married, and her mother shortly after. We had to pay for everything ourselves because my parents were deceased, too, remember?"

"I remember. But it's not like _we're_ having a large wedding. Ten people at most from my side, about the same from Toni's."

Sirius failed to note the bemused glances his three friends exchanged at the affectionate nickname he'd bestowed his fiancé as he'd been taking a drink at the time. A far cry, they all thought, from the pronoun he'd been calling her in the past ―_Her_.

Remus leaned an arm on the table. "Anything else you had to do?"

"Now that you mention it, I did end up procuring a Ministry-approved portkey for our honeymoon―"

"To where?" they all shouted.

Sirius drew back a little at their obvious enthusiasm. Well, he supposed they were allowed to feel excited for him, even if he wasn't. "Greece. Then, after a week, Egypt."

Peter looked confused. "But I thought you wanted to go to the Mediterranean?"

Sirius paused in the process of sipping his drink, not quite believing his friend had said that.

He wasn't the only one.

"Greece _is_ in the Mediterranean, Wormtail," James informed him, adjusting his glasses. "So's Egypt for that matter."

"Oh," Peter blushed. "Well how was I supposed to know?"

"Everyone knows," Sirius muttered. "At least everyone sane."

Peter heard him, flushed even more (this time in anger), and defended himself. "I don't know why they have to give everything more than one name. It gets confusing."

Sirius suddenly grinned. "That's why you have us as friends, Peter. You can say whatever you like to us and we wouldn't care."

"Yeah," he said.

"You know I still can't quite believe you're going to have a wife in three days. It's sort of sacrilege isn't it? All the laws of God and Man state that Sirius Black shouldn't be allowed to get married."

Sirius tilted his head, accepting the compliment. "Thank you very much, Moony. But what made you think of that?"

"I remember you saying it at James's wedding."

"I don't."

"You were a bit, erm, indisposed at the time."

Sirius cocked his head. "Which one?"

"I think its name was Jim Bean."

"Ah," he said thoughtfully, "muggle. Quite good, you know. Not as strong as Old Ogden's, of course, but still fairly potent."

Remus paused, considered, then said, "You sound like Slughorn talking about his potion ingredients."

"As long as I never end up looking like him," was Sirius's retort.

They both laughed.

"You're both insane," James said shortly, bending to pick Harry up. His nose wrinkled. "Merlin, he smells. What have you been eating?"

Harry smiled, revealing almost there teeth.

"He's kind of creepy, you know," Sirius put in. "Not that we all don't love him or anything, but when he smiles at you like he knows what you're saying . . . it's sort of cute," he added thoughtfully.

"Make up your mind," James said exasperatedly. "And as for you . . ." he looked at his son. "I'm going to have to clean you up. Don't think your mum would appreciate me doing it at the table though, no matter if I use magic."

"Why don't you just vanish the, er, _it_?" Peter suggested.

They all looked at him.

"You can do that?" James all but shouted. He groaned. "Lily had me changing him the muggle way most of the time. And even when I did do it by magic, I didn't want to be near it. I didn't even think of vanishing it."

They laughed.

"You can fight Death Eaters and don't get disgusted by looking at blood, but excrement from your own son is enough to send you running for the nearest door?"

"Shut up, Remus." James snarled as they all cracked up again.

"Oh good, you've all calmed down then." Lily, followed by Antoinette, breezed into the dining room. Both witches were floating large platefuls, bowlfuls, jugfuls, and potfuls of delicious looking food and drink. "We heard raised voices."

They set the food down carefully, plateful by plateful. Sirius had eyes only for Antoinette. She moved, as always, delicately. Her wand swishing gently when she needed it. A wisp of hair fell from her coiffeur and lay moulded against her heart-shaped face. She brushed it back with a slim finger so that it lay curled against her earlobe. He desperately wished to be that lock of hair, more than he'd ever wished for anything. He wanted even more to be able, no, to be _allowed_ to trace that lock with his lips. He fantasised for a minute about what he would do after tracing the lock. Her earlobe, neck, and the line of her collarbone all featured prominently in his thoughts.

Sirius blinked out of his fantasy when he felt her sit down next to him.

Again, he didn't risk looking at her. His only consolation was that this time they weren't alone. He had unconscious support, so to speak.

"So why didn't you change him?" Lily's voice cut through his thoughts. "It's a simple matter. Honestly, James, he'll get a rash." She took Harry from out of his father's arms, unhooked his trousers and drew them taught with one hand; the other hand unpocketed her wand. She waved it over the stretched trousers, then handed the babe back to her husband, who was gaping.

"What the bloody hell did you just do?" he asked, rudely.

"I vanished his poo," Lily answered promptly, not even bothering to look up from the transferring of potatoes that was completing the journey to her plate.

"Vanished?" James echoed, still looking incredulous.

She finally deigned to look at him. "Yes, James. Vanished. You do know what that means, don't you? To make something not be there anymore? To banish it into thin air? It's a fifth year spell!"

"I know what the bloody hell it means," he said tightly. "But when did you start using it on Harry's nappies?"

"What are you talking about? I always have."

"No you haven't!"

"I think I would know better than anyone if I have or haven't!" she said, indignant.

"Why didn't you ever tell _me_ about it then?"

"You're a wizard! Surely you could have figured it out yourself?"

"Then why did you tell me to changed Harry's nappies the muggle way?"

"I never did!"

James stared. "I remember you showing me," he insisted.

"No," Lily began, speaking slowly, "what I did, dear, was make you stop complaining. Even when changing his nappies using magic you'd protest. I simply told you that the muggles had it worse, and then demonstrated _why_ to make you stop complaining. It's certainly not _my_ fault you interpreted my actions differently."

James sat for a minute. "Well I'm going to be vanishing it from now on, then."

"No, you're not," she said calmly.

"Yes I bloody am!"

"No, you're not, because vanishing is only to be used for emergencies. The spell doesn't vanish the whole lot, does it? All the squidgy bits are still seeped into the fabric. Think about it, James, I mean you can't _Evanesco_ a stain on your shirt, can you? That's why we have water and washing powder."

"No," said James thoughtfully, a gleam of hope in his eyes, "but I can transfigure it. And that's exactly what I'll be doing to Harry's nappies from now on. Transfiguring them to other nappies. _Clean_ nappies," he added pointedly.

"At least you're using your head at last," was all Lily said. James looked a bit disappointed at her lack of reaction to his genius.

Everyone else quickly ate what little they'd scooped on their plates during the argument.

"So, Miss Le Creux, tells us a little about you? Sirius here hasn't deigned to say much."

James, who'd been the one to voice the question, looked up from feeding his son. Every other head, except Sirius's, turned also.

He picked up his glass instead.

"Well," she began, "first of all it's Antoinette."

James grinned.

"And secondly, I have lived in Pointoise all my life. On the outskirts of Batonville in a large châteaux. It is a little like your . . . Hogsmede. Batonville, that is. One of only two entirely wizarding villages in France."

"What's Beaubatons like?"

Remus Lupin looked decidedly uneasy for having asked that question, as if she might refuse to answer because he was a werewolf. "I'm not sure how it compares to your Hogwarts, but Beaubatons is . . . a literal palace. Very beautiful. Like out of a fairy tale. It sits on a large hill behind a mountain range. We have flags on the turrets. At dawn it lights up like diamonds. I do not know what else to say. It is very . . . clean," she finished.

Everyone except Sirius laughed.

"Hogwarts is not quite as extravagant as that," said Lily, forking a spoonful of baked potatoes into her mouth.

"It's like a dirty great castle," Peter added.

"It's not that bad, Pete," said Remus, then seemed to contemplate. "Okay, maybe Peeves ought to go, but everything else is fine. Better than fine."

Antoinette asked, "What are peeves?"

They all laughed. Except Sirius.

"It's not what, it's who —singular," Lily explained. "Peeves is a poltergeist. Quite a nasty one I'm afraid," she grimaced. "He likes to torture the first years by bombing them with balloons filled with wet flour or mud or, one time I think it was worms even."

Antoinette shuddered. "That is very disturbing . . . ghosts are not allowed at Beaubatons, let along poltergeists."

They looked intrigued.

"Really?" James queried.

"Yes. If one does manage to gain access we perform an exorcism, but that has not happened in years."

"Oh, how cruel!" Lily exclaimed. "Forcing them to crossover before they even want to."

"I'm surprised by your shock, Lily. The French have always been impetuous. Add snobby purebloods to the mix and you have an even worse outcome."

Silence descended.

Antoinette was aware that everyone had stopped eating and was staring at both she and Sirius ―who'd been the one to make that caustic remark― except Harry, he was happily playing with the food on his father's plate.

Antoinette calmly set down her fork, picked up her napkin, and dabbed it in the corner of her mouth. Her actions belied what she felt. Inside, she was furious. Not only had he insulted her race, but also her status. Could she help it that she was pureblood? He was too, the hypocrite!

She stood. Everyone tensed. Even Sirius looked wary at her silence.

In fact he was wary. He thought that he might have gone a little overboard this time, but the opportunity had been too good to miss as he'd seen it. It was purely an ingrained instinctive reaction, something which happened a lot since he'd met his betrothed.

She turned to stare him straight in the eye. His heart constricted. There was such a look of loathing on her face ―the first of any sort of high emotion he'd seen her express, ever― that he should have been turning into a toad where he sat.

"You, monsieur, are _incroyable_," she whispered slowly. The fact she was using English interspersed with French words should have warned Sirius as to what would happen, but he was too busy cursing himself and being hurt at her upset to take notice. "Despicable. Swine." She drew nearer to him, so much so that he leaned back in alarm. "_Mon Dieu_, Sirius!" There was such hurt in her voice that he began to feel something suspiciously like guilt. "I quit. I'm fired. You can explain to your mother why you no longer have a fiancée! I will remain silent no longer. I am not dirt for you to be walking on whenever you feel like it! Nor am I your house elf for you to be telling me what to do all the time! If I feel like hating you, and showing it to the world, you shall not stop me! I will no longer be participating in your ridiculous ruse either. I hope to never see you again. Au revoir!"

With that said she stepped away from the table, pushed her chair in, and began stalking out of the room. She stopped before she reached the exit, turned, said, "I apologise, Lily and James, for my thoughtless display of anger. Usually, I do not let my emotions rule me so. But I must go."

"No, no, it's perfectly understandable." Lily said. She, too, was frowning at him. "Think nothing of it."

Seconds later his beautiful betrothed was gone.

Lily glared. "Go and apologise to her before she has a chance to tell her parents, then invite her back here."

"I don't―"

"NOW, Sirius!"

He gulped. "But Lily . . ."

She shook her head. "If you don't marry that girl there is no gold. There is no Order. Voldemort wins!"

"Don't be quite so dramatic," he muttered.

She closed her eyes. "Swallow your pride and just go. And you three don't even think about siding with him," she said sharply, glaring at her husband, Remus, and Peter, who looked taken aback.

Fist clenching, jaw cracking, he stood up with all the dignity he could. "Fine. I'm going."

"And don't act like a complete cad either," Lily added.

With a slight shudder at the thought of what he now he to do to apologise (like grovel) Sirius made his way out of the room; hoping, against all hope that he would succeeded.

He grinned suddenly.

He'd discovered something new about Toni now. The little chit had fire in her. In fact, she was a veritable exploding volcano. No longer could he call her an ice princess. She was made of passion. His breath hitched suddenly at the thought of her expending that passion in dozens of different creative ways; ways he'd like to teach her himself. It was knowledge he could have done without.

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**A/N: Meanings:**

_fou, détraqué:_crazy.

_Incroyable: _unbelievable

_Mon Dieu!_ : My God!

Quiberon Quafflepunchers/Pride of Portree: I didn't make these teams up. I got them from _Quidditch Through The Ages. _The robes Antoinette thinks about are "distasteful" to her because they are "shocking pink" as J.K. Rowling tells us on page forty.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Happy Reading!


	8. The time has come

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot.

A/N: Thanks to the two reviewers that sent me those wonderful and uplifting reviews.

Again, there are innuendoes in this chapter, but the rating's M, so I'm safe.

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**Chapter Seven: The time has come . . .**

Sirius managed not to slam the Potter's front door on his way out. But when he looked ahead of him on the path he felt the urge to open the door again and slam it anyway. Antoinette was already standing outside the gate ― outside the anit-apparation wards ― and he knew he would not reach her in time.

Hearing him run up the path, she turned, gave him a narrowed stare which Sirius interpreted to mean something along the lines of "Fat chance if you expect me to stand and listen!" then faced forward again.

"Don't ―" was all he managed before, with a pop, she vanished.

He stood just before the gate. He had been a split second too late.

Raking a hand through his hair Sirius patiently opened the gate, stepped through it, and shut it with the force of something comparable to an elephant stampede. Then he closed his eyes and apparated.

He arrived in the Leaky Cauldron's specified apparition room. He looked around quickly. The room was devoid of all furniture so apparators would not accidentally land on something and cause an accident. It was also devoid of his fiancée.

He swore long, loud and creatively. He had no chance of catching up to her before she reached her parents now ― unless . . .

With a wicked smirk widening his jaw he apparated again.

He arrived right in front of the Le Cruex's door — which meant he arrived just as Antoinette was about to knock on it. She knocked on his chest instead.

It didn't take her long to realise that she was knocking on something that was firm, but that wasn't made of wood. He took a moment to admire her wide-eyed gaping look. She took that moment to quickly step away from him. His hand shot out and grabbed hers before it could disappear.

"Ohhhh!" she snarled, tugging uselessly.

Sirius clenched his jaw, whispered. "Will you quit it; I need to talk to you."

"You've said all you had to say."

He winced at her deliberately loud tone. "That's it!" he exploded, but in a whisper. "You _will_ listen to me. But not here." Not giving her a chance to object he apparated again.

"Stop doing that!" was the first thing she said when they appeared in front of the Potter's house once more. "And let go of my hand."

"No."

She narrowed her eyes at his brooking-no-argument tone. He arched a brow in response. She tried tugging again, but he was immovable.

"Let me go! _Dieu!_"

He saw what she was going to do a split second before she did it. He didn't have time to move.

She stepped on his foot. Hard.

"Ow!" he yelped, hopped, but still had enough sense not to let go of her wrist.

As it was he lost his balance because of the hopping, and because he still wasn't letting go she lost her balance, too.

They fell.

He heard her sharp intake of breath. Heard the grunt tear from his throat as they landed.

The sharp pain in his lower back bore testament to the fact that he had landed in exactly the same spot he'd injured earlier that day in what had also been a similar situation. Except this time he'd landed on concrete, which was even worse, and this time he had his beautiful betrothed sprawled wantonly on top of him instead of a forty-year-old harridan, which was doubly worse.

He closed his eyes in an effort to keep the enticing image at bay.

It was the worst mistake he could have made.

They were touching.

Everywhere.

He could, Merlin help him, feel everything. Every curve, every line, every place they touched. He was holding onto her arms ― a product from an effort to protect her as they'd fallen ― tightly, but not tightly enough to bruise. He could feel that her breasts, the globes soft and firm, were squashed up against his chest ― something he'd only dared fantasise about previously in the dark hours of the night. Her legs had locked with his as they'd landed in an effort to stop herself from falling, but she'd only managed to make them twine even more intimately. The hot breath on his cheek told him that her face was level with his.

His pleasure pressed hard and hot into her stomach.

He groaned. He couldn't help it. Right now, at this moment, he was through fighting the lure she held over him. He didn't care anymore. But never, ever did he loose sight of who she really was ― and that knowing sent his heart palpitating. She was _his_. His betrothed, his future wife. The knowledge that she belonged to him, that she was given to him, into his keeping for all time, enflamed him. Nothing else mattered but that. He forgot everything else.

His eyes opened, locked onto hers ― and all his previous sultry thoughts evaporated. She was angry. Furious. Those sapphire depths were burning with violet flames.

He'd forgotten, momentarily, that she couldn't have known what he was thinking. Couldn't have known he'd wanted to kiss her. That she still detested him.

He'd forgotten that he detested her.

"Let go of me," she said low, and slowly.

Shivering as her hot breath skimmed over his lips, he released her arms and forced himself to watch (forced himself not to grab hold of her again) as she, without a moment's wait, shot up.

He wouldn't forget again.

His own ascent was fast as well ― that is, until, he placed his right foot down and leaned all his weight on it.

A sharp pain jolted from his ankle, up his leg, and through his thigh.

He gasped.

She heard, turned. "What is it?" Her question held a frowning tone, as though she thought he'd gasped just to inconvenience her.

He looked away from her gaze, lest he loose his wits again. "That fall twisted my ankle."

"Oh, well we know whose fault that is," she said, and sniffed haughtily.

His jaw clenched. "I suppose we do."

"We better get you into the house, then."

Hardly believe what he was hearing, Sirius stared at her. She looked perfectly serious. "I would have thought you'd use this opportunity to get as far away from me as possible. Go back to The Leaky Cauldron, perhaps?"

One shoulder lifted in a small shrug. "You are injured, and despite the fact that I do not like you, we are still formerly betrothed. I have a duty to you, and until my parents and your mother dismiss us of it ― which, if I have anything to say will be tonight after I have spoken with them ― I will continue to be loyal to you."

For some exceedingly puzzling reason scintillating happiness had blossomed in his chest at hearing her say she had a duty to him, then plummeted heavily at the reminder that she still wanted to break off their betrothal. "About that," he sighed. "We need to talk."

Her eyes narrowed. "I will not be changing my mind ―"

"What if I promise not to behave as I've done?" he interjected.

She paused in the process of answering, and looked at him incredulously. "Is that possible for you, impulsive as you are?"

He _almost_ scowled at her tone. "And of course you know me so well."

"There!" she said suddenly, and pointed at him. "That is exactly my objection. You cannot go one sentence without saying something derogatory, something shredding, or sounding as though you wish me out of existence!"

A flush of anger stained her pretty cheekbones, and Sirius had to mentally shake his head to respond. "Do you want me to promise not to do it again?" His tone was a straightforward, no-nonsense type, but inwardly he burned with furious humiliation. The things he did for the good of wizardkind

Her head tilted to the side as she looked him over. "How can I be sure you will hold to such a promise?"

"I don't lie." _Except for Order work_, he added silently.

"As you so caustically pointed out, I do not know you that well."

He had to hand it to her; she was a cunning little witch. "Do you want me to swear?" He ground his teeth so hard he was certain they'd have holes in them. Drawing a breath to clear his head, he spoke: "I promise that if I so much as look at you insultingly you can apparate straight to your parents and tell them the marriage is off. And, if you have trouble convincing them, I'll even come with you."

She stared.

"Is that satisfactory enough?"

He saw her about to nod, but in the middle of said action, paused. "I want some answers first."

Sirius forced himself not to react. "Go on," he said, low.

He was surprised when she began to pace the path in front of him. "I don't know why this marriage is important to you, other than what you have told me, but somehow . . ." she paused and looked at him. _Don't react, don't react_, his brain chanted. "Somehow, I do not entirely believe that. In fact, I do not entirely believe a lot of things. Who are you, Sirius Black?"

"What do you ―?"

"Situations have forced me to come up with some, undesirable, conclusions regarding your lifestyle choices."

He stiffened. "What do you mean, 'undesirable'?"

Walking until she was arm's reach away, she tilted her head to stare up at him. Her blue, blue eyes pierced his mind, and he braced himself. "I wish to know the truth if I am to live with you for the rest of my life. I deserve to know it." She waited a full ten seconds to answer, nine of which Sirius was ready to burst with frustration. "Do you work for the Dark Lord?"

He instantly exploded. _"What?"_

She jumped at the force of his bellow. "Do not be angry because I've guessed, it was really quite easy to."

"And what, pray tell, gave me away?" he gritted out. How the hell she'd come up with _that_ . . . he shuddered, but he needed to know.

She counted on her fingers. "First of all, you needed your money back, which you could not acquire unless you married me."

"And that automatically equates ―"

"Second," she added, talking over the top of him, "your disposition is that of a wounded dragon. To put it short, you're nasty."

Sirius blinked, sputtered. "That doesn't mean ―"

"Third, and the most obvious one, you are a pureblood."

She had him there. "But still ―"

"Fourth, you asked me to lie to my parents, participate in a ruse ― after all, why bother putting up a ruse unless you want to impress someone, a certain Dark Lord perhaps?" He opened his mouth, but she continued, "Fifth, I have discovered some clues, observed some situations, and put two and two together. Sixth, your mother . . . well that speaks for itself."

He couldn't argue with her, but he was curious about the 'clues' she'd mentioned. What clues? As for that crack about Voldemort . . . "All right." He paused, and considered. "So now that you know the truth about me and my, allegiance, why aren't you panicking?"

She scoffed, pretty eyes peeking up from behind thick, feathery lashes. "You can't hurt me. Without me you have no gold."

_Clever._ "That's true. But I have to tell you so that you won't get anymore fancy ideas, that even if I never get the gold I wouldn't hurt you, Antoinette, because I'm not a Death Eater, nor am I the sort of person who would do that."

She blinked. _"Quoi?_ But you . . ." Her eyes flitted between his own. What she saw must have convinced her. "Oh. I see. You were testing me."

His head inclined.

Her lips pursed. "Please do not do that again."

"All right, but do we have an agreement?" he pressed. "Are we going to continue to 'participate in my ruse' as you put it? Are you going to go to your parents'?"

She made him wait a full minute before giving him the answers he wanted.

"Yes, yes, and no."

Inwardly, he sighed in relief. Outwardly, he nodded. "Thank you."

She nodded in return, looked up, sighed, then moved closer to him. He forced himself not to draw back. "Give me your arm," she said.

"Why?"

"So I can help you into the house. Unless you wish me to float you ―"

"Definitely not," he said, almost shuddering. The thought of floating behind her, of being in her control, helpless ― no. But he didn't have to like the alternative either. Just because he'd promised to behave himself in the way of ceasing his derogatory comments, didn't mean he could stop lusting after her. He had no choice, however.

He extended his arm. She ducked under it, pulled it over her shoulder, and curled hers around his back. Her hand skimmed his hip and he jumped.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he stated calmly.

Her eyes, now so close to his own, looked at him. His looked back. She sighed. "Are you ready?"

Her hand tightened over his hip and his tightened in response. "Yes."

"_Bon._"

They moved.

It was slow, but only because Sirius was making it difficult. Not that she knew that, of course, as he was being quite subtle. He was determined to get his kicks somehow, if he couldn't do it in the usual way.

She opened the gate, and he leaned into her more than was necessary. She struggled a bit. He hopped. "Sorry," he said. She merely cast a cool glance up at him and continued on.

Grinning, he limped along with her.

He payed for his subtlety though. Now he had to endure the feel of her pressed against him again. He wasn't annoyed. He knew he was getting used the reaction her body induced in his. He thanked Merlin, again, that wizards wore robes . . . and then it hit him. She must have felt it already, earlier, when lying on top of him. No way could she not have felt it, pressed against him as she'd been. He groaned.

"What?" he heard her ask.

"Just hurts," he gritted out. Which was true, but she didn't have to know that he wasn't talking about his ankle.

What galled him, he realised, was not that he was attracted to her, it was that she seemed not to be attracted to him. That was the rub that was rubbing him the wrong way. Perhaps if she'd showed the slightest hint of yearning towards him, it wouldn't be so bad but, to his memory, she'd never had. Annoyance, most certainly. Disgust, definitely. Fear . . . well, perhaps not so much now. Dislike, yes, because she'd admitted to it. That last one hurt more than the rest.

Lily was fluttering in the kitchen searching for her _Household Healing_ text by the time Sirius and Antoinette arrived inside the house. It gave rise to the observation that Lily or all of his friends must have seen their interlude in the gardens. Not that he minded, but, Merlin, he could never think properly when Antoinette was around.

Sirius, letting go of her, pottered to the couch and, groaning (but only for effect) eased onto it.

Peter kindly offered Antoinette a chair he'd fetched from the dinning room, which he now placed beside the head of the couch. She took it.

"Now," Lily said briskly, striding into the room with wand aloft and book in hand, "tell me what hurts."

_You don't want to know_, Sirius thought wickedly, but he said, "My ankle and my lower back. It was already jarred from a previous fall today, and this last one just made it worse."

Antoinette's head snapped up at that. "You were hurt all this time?"

Blinking at her gentle tone, he answered. "Only a little."

She frowned. Looked away, then, inexplicably, a faint hint of bloom brushed her cheekbones.

He wondered at that. What could she have to blush over? The first time he'd fallen hadn't been her fault.

Remus conjured a glass of water and held it in front of Sirius's nose. "Here. You look pinched."

Sirius took it. "I feel pinched," he muttered, and sipped. No one made comment.

Lily was flicking through the book. "I suppose it's best if we do your ankle first, that way James can turn you on your back."

"I'm hardly crippled," he gritted out.

"All the same, you'll accept his help."

Behind his wife, James shrugged.

Sirius rolled his eyes, and breathed.

Her scent assailed him. Exotic flower. He breathed again.

He was strongly aware of her. Positioned as he was, he couldn't see more of her than the hem of her amethyst robes, but he could still . . . _feel_ her. Smell her. Want her. It was disconcerting.

"Where's my godson?" he asked, determined to think about something else. Sirius cared for Harry more than anything, so the subject was guaranteed to take his mind off . . . what he didn't want to think about.

James sat on the sofa beside him. "We put him to bed. You have to turn over."

_What?_ "What? But what my ankle?"

James glanced at him sideways. "We've finished. You were too busy wool-gathering."

Sirius brushed aside the offered hand. "Doesn't matter. I don't need your help."

Very conscious that everyone was staring at him, he quickly turned onto his stomach — and only just stopped himself from gasping. The small muscle in his lower back had tweaked horribly. He tensed from a moment, then eased.

Unfortunately, this left him looking right at her.

Instantly, Sirius knew that she must have spotted his pain. It wasn't anything in her expression or her stance, which was haughty as always, that gave her away. It was just that she was staring at him. Her cool stare. The stare that never failed to get his goat because it meant that she'd never . . .

He let his head fall into the cushions so that he wouldn't have to look at her.

_Coward_, his brain mocked.

Sirius told it to shut up.

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Godson.

That explained Sirius's and Harry's attachment to each other.

It took awhile for Antoinette to realise that, come three days from now, little Harry would be her godson, too. She would be getting even more family than she'd anticipated. Family that wouldn't be anything at all like the callous Walburga.

It was a lot to take in at first.

"Would you like some more, Antoinette? After all, you helped make it."

She smiled at the offered soufflé and took the dish from Lily's hand. "Merci." She scooped some onto her plate, then set the dish on the table. Forking a spoonful into her mouth she let the conversation which, typically, was Quidditch orientated, flow over her.

She had to think.

Her talk in the Potter's gardens with Sirius had opened her eyes. Now that she knew he was not a Death Eater, she felt . . . relaxed. She hadn't even known how tense she had been until he'd reassured her. Now she felt as though a heavy weight ― a weight that had lurked in the back of her mind since she'd started having her suspicious — had finally eased.

Never in a million years would she have thought he would let go of his pride and apologise to her, going so far as to even negotiate terms. He must really want that money.

The revelation that her fiancé cared more for gold than for her would have depressed her a couple of weeks ago, but now, all she felt was numb.

She knew he would never like her.

Despite what he'd promised she knew, no matter if he showed it or not, that he would always hate her because, to his mind, she was the problem. Without her in the picture, he might have somehow found a way to weasel the money from under his mother's nose without getting married, but because she was here . . . well, suffice it to say that he would always look down on her. Always blame her for what he considered was a misfortune.

She watched him now from under her lashes. He was eating the soufflé (actually he was stuffing his mouth with it) but even that was done in a refined way. His tongue peeked out and licked off a little bit of chocolate from the corner of his lip.

She shuddered.

As always when she saw him a swirling heat started low in her belly. The more she stared at him, the worse it got. When he'd appeared outside of her door earlier that day to take her to the races (in those hideous black velvet robes), and when his fingers had curled around hers, she'd felt a tingling start in a region much lower than her stomach.

She had known what it was. And, at the time, had been mortified by it. It was only after she'd realised that he couldn't know, could never ― _would_ never know, that she'd relaxed. It also helped that not even half an hour ago she had felt his own . . . she had felt it pressed into . . . well, whatever.

She was not worried. It had not even occurred to her to be. She'd panned it off as a purely physical reaction, induced simply because he was a male and she was a female. He had not meant it. He would never mean it.

She stared at him now.

She knew what would happen, but she stared anyway.

Sure enough . . . Gasping, hoping her cheeks didn't reflect what she was feeling, she took a gulp of cool pumpkin juice.

Dieu, but what she wouldn't do for a cooling charm. Unfortunately, that would raise too many suspicions. Why should she need one after all? It was hardly summer.

". . . of Quidditch, Antoinette?"

"I have never gathered any enthusiasm for it," she answered, after recalling the question.

"Oh, well we're going to have to change that," said James. "You'll be married to a hardcore Quidditch fan. Can't have you —"

"I'm hardly a hardcore fan," Sirius interjected in a bored tone. "Perhaps you should start looking inward before looking outward, James."

James blinked behind gold-framed glasses. "I'm not _that_ bad." He looked to his friends, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze. "Am I?"

"The important thing is that you believe that, darling," said Lily, and patted him on the shoulder.

Antoinette got the inexplicable urge to burst out laughing. Never having felt the urge before, she really didn't know what to do. Panic started. Two sides of her emotions warred; the side that had been gently reared in the bosom of her pureblood ancestry, and her rebellious side; the side that told her to befriend muggleborns. After fighting furiously with herself her lips, starting in a smile, finally eased. Her gently reared side had won.

She breathed in relief.

The others felt no such reservations. They chuckled, laughed . . . it was a pleasant, homely scene.

James, for his part, didn't look embarrassed. Perhaps he was used to it?

The rest of the next two hours was spent reminiscing about Hogwarts and Beaubatons, respectively, and playing exploding snap. Lily stood up to make tea and coffee, and returned with two potfuls as well as a plateful of shortbread biscuits.

"They're muggle," she explained, setting them down in the middle of the table. All four men instantly reached for them. By the time Antoinette and Lily could get at the plate, three quarters of the biscuits were gone.

"Honestly," Lily tsked. "It's as though you've never seen them before."

"But they're so . . ." James stopped, looking thoughtful.

"Creamy?" Remus supplied.

James nodded thankfully. "That's it."

Lily snorted. "Creamy."

After all the tea and coffee was depleted it was time for Peter to leave. He stood, stuffing a last biscuit into his mouth. "Thungzlily," he garbled around the mouthful.

"No problem at all," she smiled. "Always happy to have you. I'll get your cloak." She flicked her wand. Seconds later a violet cloak soared into the room and stopped in front of Peter. He plucked it from the air and clipped it around his neck.

Sirius, James, and Remus stood to embrace him. Antoinette heard Sirius mutter, "Don't forget about Thursday, Pete."

Peter offered Antoinette his hand, which she took. "Lovely to have met you," he murmured, still not looking at her.

"And you," she returned.

Eyes darting he blushed and, walking passed his friends pinched some floo powder from the mantelpiece, tossed it into the flames, and stepped in.

"Say hello to your mother for me," said Lily. "And ask her about that recipe I want. She'll know what you mean. The poor dear's lovely but she tends to forget often."

Sirius's subsequent cough sounded a lot like, "Pettigrew."

Antoinette had time to see Peter's furrowed brow before he departed in a whisk of green flames.

Another half an hour past. Harry awoke at one point and Sirius went to fetch him. The babe was passed around at first, then settled on Sirius's lap; holding court to whomever would pay attention, which meant everyone.

Antoinette blinked upon suddenly finding herself with a lapful of little boy. She looked up at her fiancé. He grinned back. "It's time you got used to your future godson, isn't it?"

Against her will, she found herself smiling, then concentrated all her attention on the babe. She discovered, after ten minutes, that Harry was apparently very adapted at pulling hair. He would yank a lock, and twine it around his little hand until she was forced to bend her neck to avoid having the lock torn.

Rather than helping her Sirius, the cur, simply smiled. It was Lily, after spotting the situation, who finally took pity on her, gently extricating the trapped hair from between Harry's fingers.

"Terribly sorry," she said, blushing.

Antoinette brushed the apology aside. "He's only a baby."

Another thirty minutes past; more coffee and tea was poured along with a fresh plateful of biscuits. When Harry fell asleep on Remus's lap, Sirius declared it was time to go.

After much backslapping between the three men, a hug for Lily, and an enormously loud kiss for Harry (who had awakened after hearing the backslapping), Antoinette said her goodbyes and followed Sirius out of the house.

Darkness pervaded.

Fireflies darted in and out of the bushes on either side of the path.

Neither she nor Sirius offered to strike up a conversation. But the silence wasn't tense. Was, in fact, pleasant.

When they stepped through the gate Sirius extended his hand, a questioning look in his dark grey eyes. Already, the changes were happening. Earlier, he simply would have grabbed her hand and apparated without warning. He was holding up to his promise.

She set her hand in his, shivered when she felt the strong fingers close around hers. The familiar tingling started. Extremely happy that it was dark, she let him pull her close (not close enough to touch) but still uncomfortably, feelingly, close. She closed her eyes.

_Pop!_

Then opened them.

His looked into hers.

This time there was no darkness to detract from the beauty of them. And they were beautiful, so beautiful. She had forgotten that. Forgotten because his nastiness always distracted her, but no more. She found herself about to sigh.

He blinked. Breathed once. Hard. Then set her away from him. "Come on. You're parents will be wondering where we are."

Before he could walk passed her, she made a grab for his arm.

He tensed.

She peered at his face. "Did you forget?"

"Yes," was all he said, but he covered her hand with his.

They walked out into the bustling inn.

It wasn't as crowded as it would have been had it been lunch time, but it was still fairly constricted. Pipes let of swaths of smoke, people chatted, a faint tune from Wizarding Wireless played in the background. Hardly anyone payed attention to them.

Just as they were about to turn up the stairs Sirius stiffened. She looked up at his face. He was gazing into the crowd, brow furrowed, lips turned in a stiff purse.

"What is it?"

His eyes, so grey, looked to hers. "I'm going to have to ask your permission for something."

She had a fair idea of what he wanted to ask, but said anyway, "What?"

He breathed. Paused. "I know I said I wouldn't but . . . I'm going to have to kiss you."

She blinked, and looked at him. Hard.

He seemed not to be joking.

Never, ever, ever would she have thought . . . kiss him? Would she last?

"Oh," she said, weakly.

"Is that a yes?" His gaze seemed frantic, as if he were burning for her to answer in the positive.

She responded in a way that any woman would when faced with such eagerness: "Yes, it is."

He tensed, looked at her; stared as if he couldn't quite believe she would allow him this liberty. What he saw must have convinced him. His gaze turned immediately hot.

Faced with the peculiar sensation that she was, Merlin forbid, naked, she only had time for one gasp before he was swooping down and claiming her lips.

It was an unsatisfying, short kiss. Not even a second long. She forced herself not to show disappointment.

"Come on," he urged, ushering her up the stairs. His voice had sounded strained. She reminded herself that he disliked her, and that having to kiss her had probably unsettled him.

Sirius did not turn to look at whatever, whoever, had prompted him to kiss her.

Heart thumping, she let him lead her.

They stood outside of her parents' room. Sirius was not looking at her. Indeed, he hadn't been looking at her since before their kiss.

"Are you coming in?" she asked.

"Not tonight. I have somewhere else to be." He paused, raked his hair. "Say hello to your parents for me?"

She nodded.

He smiled, briefly, turned, and left.

All the while he had not looked at her.

xxxxxxxx

Remus prided himself on being the only one of the Marauders who had a manageable disposition. He never became angry (except for the time Sirius sent Snape into the Whomping Willow), he never became frustrated. Annoyed, most certainly ― after all, he'd had to deal with James Potter and Sirius Black for eleven years. Even Merlin would have become irritated with those two. He had always been the voice of cool reason and intellect.

Sirius, for once, was listening to that reason and intellect.

"I'm glad you took Lily's advice and apologised. There would have been hell to pay if you hadn't."

"You mean the Dumbledore kind, don't you?"

"It's no secret that he would have been disappointed in you. Everyone would have. Sometimes you have to let go of pride. It's unbecoming, and can lead you in the worst of situations."

Sirius sighed and raked his hair. "That almost happened. She nearly didn't forgive me, and ― what?"

Remus realised that he was grinning. "Nothing, it's just, I still can't believe you're getting married tomorrow, Padfoot."

Sirius snorted. "Join the club, there's free entry." He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "I suppose I'm getting used to it, though. That persistently heavy feeling has faded now. It's almost as if I'm . . . never mind."

Remus left Sirius, who was looking a trifle sheepish, to his thoughts and surveyed the room.

The Order meeting had yet to begin. Everyone was present, but since Dumbledore hadn't yet arrived there was no point in starting.

Unlike the last Order meeting, which had taken place in the living room, this time everyone had settled into the kitchen around a large wooden table that Dumbledore had conjured a little while ago. In the middle of the table, gleaming pots of sweet smelling tea steamed long transparent lines to the ceiling.

The pots were very tempting, and Remus could already feel that honey-taste on the back of his tongue.

Unfortunately, the cups were yet to be set out, and it would be very rude to conjure his own. Not to mention, it would make him appear as though he was too impatient to wait an extra minute.

It would also make him appear a show off, and he didn't want that.

A whoosh of green flame erupted from the fireplace, momentarily distracting him.

Dumbledore, flamboyantly dressed as always, stepped from the grate.

Conversations halted as he strolled over the sit at the head of the table.

"Anything to report?" he asked.

There was never any formality in the meetings. Certainly there was a grim sort of acceptance that the work they were doing was highly dangerous and could one day lead to death. But despite that, the atmosphere was congenial.

Sirius leaned across the table and sighed brokenly. "I've got something to report."

Everyone stared. Even the Marauders and Lily. This was the first they had heard of anything.

"Nothing to do with your lovely fiancé, I hope," Dumbledore said, eyes narrowed.

Sirius pursed his lips. "In a way. I spotted Bellatrix in The Leaky Cauldron two nights ago. She saw both Antoinette and me also. I had to think quickly."

This caused mutterings.

Dumbledore looked grim. "She did not seem, suspicious? Bellatrix, I mean."

"I didn't stick around to find out. But the brief glance I had of her seemed to me . . . she looked gloating. Smug, almost. But then she always looked like that. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But now . . ." he shrugged.

Everyone, even the Ministry, suspected Bellatrix Lestrange of Death Eater activity, but as no one had any proof, she would safely stay on the right side of the bars.

"We can hope she was at the inn purely for a hot meal and a cold drink, but I do not want to dismiss that on the grounds of coincidence. Tread carefully from now on, Sirius. The fact that you saw Bellatrix Lestrange in a place she is not known to frequent is cause for caution."

"I agree."

Dumbledore looked around. "Anything else?"

Moody shifted in his chair. "Yes. I think we ought to have more security, Dumbledore . . ."

The meeting lasted for another half hour.

Remus got to drink his tea.

After, people lingered. Those that weren't invited were offering Sirius congratulations for the wedding tomorrow.

"I say," said Dedalus, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Are you having a bachelor party tonight? Only, we haven't had something to celebrate in a good, long while."

"Unfortunately not," Sirius answered. "But if I had I would have invited you."

"Oh, no doubt. Never thought otherwise. But it's a pity . . . pity."

Inwardly, Remus grinned. Dedalus would jump at any excuse to hold a party.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Sirius," he said, and shook Sirius's hand. He was the only one from the Order besides Frank, Alice, their son Neville, and a couple of others who was invited to the wedding.

The whole Order tramping up the Ministry would have been too suspicious. Dumbledore wasn't coming either.

Mundungus Fletcher groaned pathetically. "No party? What sorta weddin' will that be?"

Dung, too, was another who would jump at any excuse. In his case, the excuse would be the free alcohol.

Sirius grinned, proof that he knew of Dung's motivations, and was now glad that he'd forgoed against having a bachelor party. "Sorry, Dung. I'm just not in the mood for one. Plus I have to wake up quite early and get ready for the wedding. You understand how it is."

"Not really. Speaking for meself, I've never been married," said Dung.

Remus fought the urge to laugh. Sirius and James had no such compulsions.

Lily tsked.

Dung, grinning happily, waved goodbye and walked out the door. He would not be going to the wedding.

"I must dash as well," said Peter. He looked to Remus slightly nervous, as if he was afraid that by dashing off he would disappoint them.

Sirius _was_ disappointed. "You are coming later, aren't you? I need some support tonight."

Peter looked offended. "Of course. It's just, Mum asked me to come over and I hate to disappoint her ―"

"It's all right, Pete. You go."

Peter's parting smile was wobbly.

"And what about you, Remus," Sirius said, turning to stare at him. "You have to go too?"

Remus sighed. He _had_ planned on going back to his cottage and filling out some spare resumes for the jobs he was applying for, but the look on Sirius's face. . . Remus supposed he could do that the day after tomorrow.

He sighed. Sometimes, being a best friend was a necessary inconvenience.

"Where do you want me?"

xxxxxxxxx

Tatienne stood before her daughter, removing gown after gown from the wardrobe and having Linear pack it away in a trunk.

It was the night before the wedding and Tatienne, while exceedingly happy at the upcoming marriage, could not help the tears that flooded her eyes.

She wiped them away before Antoinette had a chance to see.

"I shall miss you, petite," she began, as a distraction. "All your life we have waited for this moment, and now it is finally here. Everything just seems so surreal. By this time tomorrow you will be in Greece. We shall not see you except on visitations. You shall be living in England, and we will be going back to France."

Antoinette said softly. "Oui, Maman."

Tatienne turned, cocked her head, and considered her daughter.

She sat on the edge of the four poster bed, delicately perched, hands in her lap. White-gold hair lay in large bulbous curls all the way to her waist. Dark blue eyes, exactly like her own, stared, occasionally blinking, but always cool.

Tatienne felt pride in the fact that she had produced such a beautiful offspring. With hers and Edmond's looks, there could have been no other alternative.

Tatienne continued to stare at her daughter's face, so cool and beautifully haughty. She knew what she must do. If Antoinette wanted to please her husband, her cool regard would have to be put aside, for some things at least.

"Leave us, Linear," she commanded.

Bowing, the little house elf popped out of the room.

Tatienne saw the questioning stare in Antoinette's gaze. She moved to sit beside her on the bed. She decided to be frank. Antoinette was old enough, and should know about the mechanics of sex, even though she had never participated in the act. Beaubatons was hardly a nunnery. She would not have to tell her daughter about any of that. Her attitude, however . . .

Tatienne picked up her daughter's hand. "Tomorrow night, you and Sirius will make love."

Besides a telling blush to her cheeks, Antoinette did nothing but nod in agreement.

"I shall not be telling you how to go about it all. I'm sure you know everything there is to know, and if you do not, well, Sirius will assist you."

Both mother and daughter coughed, looked away slightly. The subject matter was not at all morally appropriate, but Antoinette had to know.

"However," she continued, in her best professional tone. "You're attitude . . ."

Antoinette raised a delicate brow.

Tatienne sighed, shortly. "You must leave that elsewhere. Sirius will not appreciate a block of ice. Do you understand me? You must do your duty as the wife of a pureblood."

Antoinette looked down. "What ever I feel for him, Maman, it is not cold at all."

Tatienne blinked. "Well, that's wonderful!" Then she frowned. "Has something happened between the two of you? Do not tell me you've already ―"

"No! Nothing like that."

Tatienne waited. "Yes?"

Antoinette fiddled with her gown. _Fiddled?_ Her daughter never fiddled. "When I stare at him, when he looks at me, I feel. . . warm."

Tatienne smiled in relief. "Thank Merlin. If you let it happen, Antoinette, you shall have a wonderful life together. Just look at your father and me."

Antoinette smiled.

They heard a creak on the floor outside just as the door to the room opened. Helena, disgustingly majestic as always, thumped in. Her robes were black as ever, but the square collar of them extended over her neck and passed her ears.

She looked, to put it nicely, horribly gaudy.

"There you two are," she said harshly, and closed the door behind her. She gestured with her cane. "What's this? Not crying I hope, Antoinette. It will spoil your eyes."

"No, Aunt." She gestured. "We're merely having a mother/daughter discussion."

Helena looked knowing. "Yes, I remember when my mother took me aside and explained to me the matters of pleasing a husband." Her dull eyes, which had been staring reminiscently at the ceiling, snapped to look at them. "You do know what you have to do, don't you? You won't be embarrassing us with your ignorance, will you? Tatienne, you did tell her all, didn't you?"

Tatienne lied, stiffly. Her husband's aunt never failed to irritate her. "Yes, Helena."

"Good. Very good. I shall see you tomorrow, then. I cannot wait to meet Sirius Black. Likely, his mother raised him properly." Her sneer as she looked them up and down suggested that she thought Tatienne and Edmond hadn't done so great a job with Antoinette.

"Good night," was all Tatienne said.

After one last scowling look, Helena thumped out.

Antoinette sighed.

"What is it, cherie?"

Her daughter's lip twitched. "It's just; I hope she falls asleep during the wedding."

Tatienne tinkling laugh was heard the next room over.

xxxxxxx

Antoinette stood beside her almost husband, listening to his deep voice as he recited his vows. For once, he had abandoned his shocking black robes and had instead dressed in a completely white silk ― well, she was going to have to stop staring at him. It had been bad enough before, but now . . .

The priest was positioned in front of them both, one hand lying over the sacred book, the other holding it up.

At the priest's direction, Sirius slipped the ring on her finger. It was the first time Antoinette had ever seen it, and she found herself fully admiring his choice. It was nothing but a simple thin white-gold band but the colour suited her nonetheless. It suited her hair. The ring she had chosen for him was plain gold. Nothing extravagant. She hadn't felt he would appreciate that.

"I pronounce you husband and wife. May you always go with God in your happiness."

They stood, staring at the priest.

Silence abounded all around. Behind her, a few people shuffled in their seats.

The priest coughed. "You may, er, kiss the bride, Mr Black."

Sirius blinked. "Right."

On her right, someone stifled a laugh. She had a feeling it was James Potter. It must have been; as Sirius's best man, he was the only one who could have been sitting there.

Sirius turned to her. She turned to him. He leaned towards her. She leaned towards him. She got a glimpse of sensuous dark smoke before his lids fell.

They touched lips.

That was all.

Again, it was a dismayingly short kiss.

She fought over sighing disappointedly.

Before congratulations could begin, the priest handed over an official sheet of parchment for them to sign, which they did, in twelve different places (Antoinette having to sign six times with her old name, and six with her new). With a wave of his wand, the priest vanished the parchment and shook both of their hands.

It was done.

She was now the newest Mrs Black.

The feeling overwhelmed.

So did the crowd, despite its small number.

Congratulations came in handshakes and kisses. James Potter was, of course, the first. He was followed by Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. Next in line were some people Antoinette did not even know, but they were Sirius's friends no doubt. When it was Lily's turn Antoinette embraced her warmly, almost squashing Harry, who was being held to his mother's chest.

"Take care," Lily whispered up at her when they both drew back. "I know Sirius can be difficult sometimes. I should know, I've had to put up with him being constantly underfoot for the past four years."

As one, they turned to watch the subject of their conversation. He stood on the other side of the antechamber, tall and handsome, conversing with a small man whose hat was very large and purple indeed. A small smile painted his face, but that, Antoinette knew, was only for show.

Lily sighed. "He's a good man, and an even greater wizard." She patted Antoinette's hand. "Just be patient."

Antoinette promised she would be.

After allowing Harry a hug of his own, as well as a playful tug on Antoinette's carefully arranged coiffure, Lily moved to join her husband, who was chatting with Remus and Peter.

Sirius immediately came to stand by her side. "What were you two talking about?"

She smiled at his suspicious tone. "You."

He raised a brow. "Oh. I'm that interesting?"

Antoinette said nothing.

Her parents, Aunt Helena, and Sirius's mother were the last to stand before them.

Helena, after observing the company that Sirius was keeping, had stiffly taken herself to the other side of the room in a protest before the ceremony had even begun. Now, however, she was obliged to extend her congratulations.

She did so, but the grumpy tone in her voice was far from complimentary.

Mrs Black, the senior, moved forward.

Sirius, sneering slightly, moved back.

She laughed shrilly. "Don't worry. I won't touch _you_. But I don't except that my new daughter-in-law holds your reservations." With that she stiffly kissed both of Antoinette's cheeks. Antoinette responded in turn.

Unlike Mrs Black, her parents greeted both she and Sirius warmly.

"Congratulations, children," said her father, shaking Sirius's hand.

Her mother kissed them both, then it was time to leave.

Sirius's mother ushered everyone out of the room, saying she had reserved a table at the newest wizarding restaurant in Hogsmede. She stared, blatantly, and with extreme distaste at James, Lily, Peter, and Remus. Even baby Harry didn't escape from a glower or two.

At her side, Sirius tensed. "That stupid, old, hateful hag," she heard him mutter, and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

They exited the antechamber and stepped into the Ministry's atrium. A special portkey had been authorised for she and Sirius, and another five for everyone else. There were only around twenty five guests after all.

After a little pushing, where the guests all shoved and scrambled to reach for old shoes, hats, and various other articles of clothing, the portkeys activated.

The restaurant, smack in the middle of Hogsmede, was brand new and well known.

Once inside they were held up by way of a quarrel between the proprietor of the restaurant and Mrs Black who had, it appeared, only ordered two large tables, but the man insisted she had reserved three. The mystery was solved when Sirius piped up and stated, quite cheerfully, that he had flooed back in and changed the reservations to include his friends. Mrs Black fumed silently after that.

xxxxxxxxxx

A/N: I assume that there are priests in the wizarding world from what little clues J.K. gave us. The most telling one is on her website where she gives us the song that Nearly Headless Nick was supposed to sing in the second book, about his beheading, but she had to cut it because of editorial problems. In the song, Nick mentions that a priest blessed him right before he was set to die. (And we all know Nick was a wizard before he died because he tells Harry that only wizards can become ghosts).

The other clue is from Sirius himself. In the fifth book he sings. "God Save The Hippogriffs."

Clearly, wizards, like their muggle brethren, believe in God. I would imagine that, whatever part of the world wizards come from, they share the same belief as the muggles in their country. For example, Chinese wizards might believe in Buddha. Israeli wizards might be Jewish, and so on.

However, I don't believe that religion holds great stock in the wizarding world. The only thing that does is the purity, or lack thereof, of blood. Wizards also might think of themselves as Gods in relation to muggles. They could water on water if they wanted to, after all. Perhaps a priest's job is only limited to blessing weddings and christenings?


	9. Of Revelations

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: Thanks to those five wonderful, fantabulous people who sent me reviews. You guys stick by me all the time. And of course, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to read the story.

Warning: again, there are things in this chapter that are definitely M. Perhaps more M than I've written so far.

Enjoy.

xxxxxxxxxxx

**Chapter Eight: Of Revelations**

He was, to put it simply, bored.

Not surprising, since the reception had been mostly organised by his mother. _The old hag_, he added silently.

Thinking of his mother ― he shuddered. He usually tried not to ― brought to mind the trouble he'd had to smooth over because of her.

He'd been furious upon apparating to the restaurant a few days before and discovering that, not only had she _not_ included his guests, but she'd taken it upon herself to give the proprietor gold in order to make sure none of his friends could snag a seat if they happened to turn up. Sirius had only found this out after offering his own bribe. And it had been a hefty weight, too.

He realised now that he should have been with his mother when she had begun organising it all, to make sure nothing like what had happened, happened. But the less time he spent in his mother's company the better had always been his motto, and he couldn't bring himself to stand in her presence without at least someone there to ground him; to stop him from leaping forward and strangling her.

He'd felt like doing that a lot lately.

Thinking of his mother inevitably led him to think about all the other nuisances she was responsible for in his life, which, inevitably, caused him to think about Antoinette.

He'd been doing that a lot lately, too.

On the pretence of reaching forward to grab the butterbeer jug, he cast a surreptitious glance her way ― and just as quickly looked back.

Fist tightening so hard around the handle he was certain it would start cracking, Sirius pored. Then drank.

All.

He shouldn't have looked to begin with. He'd known what he would find. White-gold curls pinned up, out from which hung light, airy wisps. Brilliant blue eyes encased in silver ― the very colour of her robes. A low décolletage, tempting his gaze, his mouth . . . He'd only just managed to stop himself from staring at her like an idiot as they exchanged their vows, greeted their guests, portkeyed to the restaurant, and pretty much every other activity they'd engaged in since she'd walked down the aisle and he'd had his first, arousing glimpse of her.

In that robe.

That robe was what did it for him. A man of his proclivities was usually easily pleased ― as long as the woman was passably pretty. But that robe . . . that robe didn't just easily please. It tantalised. Beckoned. Urged for him to . . .

His loins ached with the pressure of not having them sated. It seemed like he'd been in a constant, tightened, state ever since he'd first met her. And it was only going to get worse because they were married now, and soon to go on a honeymoon.

Together.

Alone.

Sharing a room.

Sharing a bed ― he groaned mentally. _Shut up._

There would be no sharing of beds on this honeymoon, if Sirius could help it. In fact, they would not be sharing a bed at all. Or a room. Only a house.

But he thought of her in his bed waiting for him, naked, and nearly choked on his steak.

He wasn't going to last. Merlin help him, he wasn't going to.

Especially if he had to kiss her again.

Both times had been more or less pecks ― Sirius had participated in far more arousing kisses in the past ― but something about them had . . . she hadn't just stood there and taken it. She'd tilted her head. Closed her eyes. Offered her lips. She'd _wanted_ him to kiss her. Despite knowing it was an act, despite acting herself, she'd _wanted_ him to . . . _that_ had kept him awake the last couple of nights, and that was what was jumbling his thoughts into a chaotic, unthinking whirlwind right now.

She'd _wanted_ him to kiss her.

He pored himself another cool glass of butterbeer and gulped that down too.

Was it usually this hot, at this time of year?

Disgust he could deal with. Being hated he could deal with. But he'd never thought that she might actually _desire_ him. As he did her.

He could _not_ deal with that.

Just five days before he would have thought all this, his situation, would have been easier to deal with if he'd known she'd liked him in that way, but now it made it all worse. It would be _much_ harder controlling his reactions now. Much harder not to react to her reactions.

He shuddered.

And ignored the voice in his head; the one that questioned why, precisely, he had to control them. If his instincts were right (and they usually were where most women were concerned) and she did like him like that, then what was the problem?

She was a snooty pureblood who believed werewolves and muggleborns were much lower on the food chain than 'normal' people, that's what the problem was.

Admittedly, he'd never actually heard her _say_ anything discriminatory, but she'd hinted at it, hadn't she? And the looks on her face had been enough.

He could never be happy with someone like that. Someone who was so much like his mother. He could never stay married to someone like that. He'd fought most of his young life to get away from that stigma, and most of his adult life fighting against it. He would not be drawn, unintentionally, back into it now. He would not put up with the constant stress it would place on his temper. He was a Gryffindor and he was Sirius Black. A volatile combination. He was naturally hot-headed.

It was true, though, that he'd never felt so powerfully attracted to anyone as he did Antoinette, but that didn't mean he loved her. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life with someone he didn't love.

Which was why he couldn't act on his tantalising fantasies, which he knew could never, ever, compare to the real thing.

Ever.

He groaned, aloud, this time. Why did he persist in torturing ―?"

"Are you all right?"

It was her.

_Idiot! Stop being so dramatic. Of course it's her. Besides James, who else would be sitting next to you?_

He cleared his throat, smiled. "Yes. It's just an . . . ache. It'll probably go away, given time." And space.

"Is it your ankle?"

Was that concern he heard? Damn it! He didn't want to her to be concerned about him. He didn't want to know that she was capable of actual feelings. Not anymore.

He smiled. "No."

Pause. "Am I that repulsive?"

He turned sharply.

Clear blue met dark grey. He clenched a fist beneath the table to steel himself. "You know perfectly well you are currently the most beautiful woman in England, Toni."

At the sight of her startled gaze he looked at the glass in his hand, furious that he'd admitted that to her face. _Now she'll think ― no, _know_ ― that I ―_

"Then why won't you look at me?"

Wasn't he? He couldn't recall . . . No, that was a lie. "I _did_ look at you. Just now."

A delicate snort. "You know what I mean. You have hardly glanced my way . . . and people are beginning to notice."

He frowned. "Which people?"

"Do not get angry! That will attract more attention. Smile . . . if you can."

He did smile then. Witty little witch, to use his own words against him. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Oui." She didn't deign to say more.

James, sitting on his right, leaned to whisper into his ear. "She's right, you know, you _were_ glowering. You'd think it was a funeral you were at, not your own wedding."

"Shut. Up. James. Or I'll do it for you."

"Shutting me up won't stop people from seeing, and noticing," he hissed. "Merlin, Sirius, you're supposed to be in love. Act like it."

"Does that mean I have to look at her?" Sirius whispered back.

James blinked at him. Twice.

Sirius groaned. "All right. But if I end up ravishing her on the table, it'll be your fault."

James stared, astonished. Then he grinned. Widely. "So that's why . . ."

Sirius cursed softly and looked away. He hadn't meant to admit that.

He hadn't meant to admit a lot of things tonight.

It was _her_. He couldn't think properly. She was taking over his thoughts.

"But just think," James smirked, waving a fork under Sirius's nose, "another half hour and you'll have her all to your ―"

"Shut. Up. James. You know that won't happen." He thought of his recent revelations about Antoinette, and amended. "I won't _allow_ it to happen."

There was a lengthy chuckle right before Sirius heard another voice. A suspicious voice. "Are you teasing him again, James?"

"Er, course not, Lily. Wouldn't dream of it."

"You better not be."

Inwardly laughing, outwardly smirking, Sirius thought how he'd never have the problem that James had now. He'd never have a firecracker for a wife. _His_ wife was too . . . composed. And when, exactly, had that turned into a good thing?

Speaking of which . . .

He braced his gut, turned, and smiled.

Antoinette, who'd been watching him, blinked.

He smiled again. "Enjoying the meal?"

"Oui," again.

"I'm not going to bite your head off, you know," he said, still smiling, "so you needn't look so wary."

She stared.

He picked up her hand, pressed a short kiss to her knuckles, then twined his fingers with hers. Saw her glance down and drag in a deep, deep breath.

He closed his eyes, and shuddered. He knew, now, certainly, positively, that she desired him, and couldn't quite work out how he'd never guessed before. All those little signs he'd interrupted to mean disgust or hate on her part were, in fact, want. He didn't think it could be possible, but he became hotter just thinking about it. She'd wanted him the whole time.

She was a lot better at hiding it than he was.

He recalled their first time out together, at the Leaky Cauldron, and how she'd shuddered when his fingers had brushed her nape. He thought back to a few days earlier, when she'd lied on top of him. He'd wanted to kiss her then, desperately, but had been too afraid of her rejection, of her disgust, of her hate, if he had.

He should have kissed her. He knew now that she would have kissed him back.

He sighed. No, it was best that he hadn't. _I don't want her to like me,_ he reminded himself.

But how couldn't he have guessed? He was usually very observant. Had his disliking of her, of her character, distract him enough, affect him enough, to make him think she disliked him back? It sounded farfetched, but what else could it be?

He wasn't prone to bouts of self-consciousness. He wasn't one of those men who thought no one as beautiful as Antoinette could possibly want them. He was beautiful himself, and knew it, and gloried in it occasionally. It wasn't arrogance, it was fact.

So it must have been the other thing . . . but, he'd never behaved like that before. He'd never _not_ known. But then, Toni _was_ good at hiding her feelings. He'd likened her to a block of ice when he'd first met her ― until she became furious. Then she was a volcano, threatening to burst.

He picked up their joint hands, kissed her fingers again, then offered her a sip from his goblet.

Any who saw him would gag at how sickeningly loving he was being.

Remus, sitting opposite, sputtered in his drink from trying to keep in all the laughter. Sirius promised to give him a good glare later on, right now though . . .

She accepted the silver cup with a nod.

He didn't let go of it. _Couldn't_ let go of it for some reason.

She glanced at it, then him, then it again.

He had to force his fingers to let go.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I'd never thought I'd see the day when you got married, Sirius."

Sirius grinned, then both he and Antoinette turned to greet the person behind them.

A wealth of long black hair and grey eyes, just like his own, obscured his vision. A face that was as hard as it was beautiful.

"Andromeda," he greeted, pleasure at seeing his favourite cousin on his face for all to see. "You know my wife, of course."

"I'm afraid I didn't get the time nor the pleasure at the wedding. Auntie Black was a might . . ."

"Haggish?" he offered. "Battish? Slimy?"

She stifled a peal of laughter. "How about never-endingly irritating? And this must be Mrs Black."

Sirius blinked. Then shuddered. For a moment, he'd thought of his mother . . . "Yes. Antoinette."

His wife ― _his wife_ ― extended a hand, the one that wasn't clasped in his own. "Bonsoir, Madam Tonks. Your Aunt has told me much of you."

Andromeda narrowed her eyes, but took the offered hand. "I bet she said something about how disgraceful I am to the family, and so forth."

Anoinette inclined her head. "Something like that."

Andromeda humped. "It's all a lie! _She's_ the disgraceful one. Prone to shrieking, you know. Not healthy at all. No, _Sirius_ is the good one. But I'm sure you know all about that, obviously."

"I do now," said his wife, and both Andromeda and Sirius blinked.

He couldn't believe she'd actually alluded to the conversation they'd . . . Damn it. She _knew_ he wasn't a Death Eater!

"Right, well, that's your business," said Andromeda, never one to pry, though her eyes were glinting. "Speaking of which, Sirius; I was beyond shocked at having flooed into the Ministry for my dear cousin's wedding and seeing Walburga there. Whatever possessed you to invite her? I thought for sure you hated her. No, that's too mild. Despised her would be right, wouldn't it? You know, I've counted, and no less than _fourteen_ hateful looks have been cast my way since the start of the wedding ceremony."

Highly conscious of his wife's calculatingly curious gaze, Sirius looked at what little butterbeer was left in his glass, and swirled. "I won't apologise on her behalf, but you know that. As to why she's here," he shrugged, "She invited herself. Couldn't seem to stop her."

"Hmm," was all his cousin said. The sort of "hmm" that could mean a lot of things, but mostly that she didn't believe what she'd just been told. "Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you of course," she added, looking at Antoinette. Then her eyes, mostly hidden beneath heavy lids, flitted between them. "You know, you're probably the most attractive couple I've ever seen. There's no need to look uncomfortable," she added, nodding at them. "I'd wager everyone's thinking it. How did you meet, by the way? Antoinette comes from France, doesn't she? Have you been there, Sirius? You're not one to gallivant. Oh wait . . ."

"We met at a Ministry conference." Which was true, if a little ambiguous. "How's Edward?" he asked, stealing Antoinette's glass of champagne and sipping. He needed something stronger than butterbeer.

"Ted? Oh, he's fine." She flapped a hand. "Nymphadora's just started Hogwarts, you know. Last month."

"House?"

"She's loyal and clumsy."

He shrugged. "Could have been worse. She could've ended up in Slytherin."

"Well she didn't end up in Hufflepuff, either. You just assumed she did."

Sirius frowned. "What, then―?"

"One of these days you'll deign to visit, and then you'll find out, won't you?"

Andromeda looked slightly miffed at him. Well, he supposed he hadn't visited in a while, but he'd been busy. First with Order work, now with Antoinette ― which, he reflected, _was_ Order work, in a certain sort of way. _Yes, that's it. Treat her like a job_. "I suppose I will."

She smiled. "Wonderful to meet you again, Antoinette. And you, Sirius."

"Andromeda."

With a whirl of violet robes and long black hair, she left.

"She seems nice," his wife said.

Sirius shot a narrowed glance her way. "She is. The only one of my family that I actually respect." Besides Uncle Alphard, but he was dead now.

She looked down. "May I have my hand back?"

His first impulse had been to shout an emphatic, "No!" He'd promised to behave himself, after all. But they were married now, weren't they? His promise shouldn't technically hold.

He looked at her face, so beautifully heart shaped; her eyes, like pools of blue, watching, wondering . . . and couldn't do it. Couldn't make her hate him again. Even though it meant she'd continue to want him, thus adding extra trouble onto his plate.

Even though they were married, and so Sirius was safe from having her walk off, he thought he would be an absolute arse to back on their agreement now and start acting nasty towards her again. He might dislike her, but he wasn't a deliberately cruel person. Usually. Unless you were Snape.

He was also well aware that he was assigning himself to two weeks of torture because of this. After two weeks . . . after two weeks when they came back from their holiday, he would be safe. He could last two weeks.

He released her hand.

She used it to pick up a fork. He raised his brows. This was her second plate. He'd noticed that about her. That she ate. Not precisely a lot, but healthily. She didn't hold back ― and look how slim she was.

_No, don't look!_

He couldn't help it.

She was dipping her slice of bread into the butter sauce. She bought it, dripping, into her mouth. First one finger, then a second, followed the bread.

She licked.

He looked away and shifted in his seat, attempting to soothe the ache. Instead, hot pleasure shot through his loins and built, collected. He caught James's amused eye, and quickly looked ahead.

He caught Remus's, then Peter's.

They were all smirking.

Wonderful.

He ended up looking at his plate. A half-eaten steak and mustard cream stared back at him.

He pushed it away. He was done for n ―

_Chitzzzzzz!_

He blinked as the bright light of a camera flash blinded him.

Dedalus Diggle stood in front of their table ― nudged in between Remus and Peter ― holding an ancient gigantic camera. "Sorry about that," he said, not sounding it all. Then, "Oh, I beg your pardon."

Sirius responded instinctively to Dedalus's truly apologetic tone, and looked. His wife was blinking rapidly, eyes red. He swivelled to glare at the small man.

Dedalus shrunk back in alarm. "Sorry," he squeaked. "How was I to know she'd have an allergic reaction to the flash? I didn't make the camera."

"You'd best hope she'll get better soon," he growled, before turning back. Antoinette had her hands over her eyes. He knew she didn't dare rub them, or risk taking the makeup off. Resting his hands lightly over the top of hers ― starting slightly at the difference in size, texture, and tone ― he tugged. Gently. "Let me see."

Antoinette felt the long-fingered grip, the hard palms; heard the deep rumble by her ear, and knew it was her husband. It took a moment for his words to register, and when they did, she let him have his way. Still too bewildered at her body's response to the camera to think about how sincerely gentle he sounded.

"I don't know why . . ." she mumbled as he took her hands in his and placed them onto the table. Instantly, painful light ― even if it was only projected out of nearby candles ― glared into her eyes. Too many bright spots. She shut them again as sharp pain streaked to her brain. "Oh!"

"Have you ever been photographed before?"

She shook her head. "No. Only portraits."

"Hmm. There's your answer. You're not used to it. Neither was I, until I started Hogwarts. My family didn't want anything remotely muggle tarnishing their precious pureblood son. And Dedalus's camera's one of those ancient muggle ones. The lights on those are ghastly. Open your eyes."

She shook her head again. "I cannot. The pain, it is too ―"

"Trust me. It should have gone away by now." She heard him take a breath. "I want you to open your eyes and focus on mine. Are you ready?"

"I . . ." Was she ready? She didn't think so. She swore she could still feel a lingering of the pain that had shot through her before. And trust him? Why should she? Did he care?

It sounded like he did.

_Well, yes,_ she admitted. _But still_ . . . "I . . . Oui. All right."

"Good. On three. One . . . Two ―"

She let her eyes flutter open; instantly, instinctively, searched for his. She didn't have to search. He was right there, in front of her. They were almost nose to nose.

"Just forget the pain. Forget the light," he soothed. "Focus on me."

That wasn't hard to do. Indeed, it was probably the easiest thing she'd ever do in her life. He was so pleasing to look at, even though she wasn't seeing anything beyond his eyes, which were the most beautiful part of him as far as she was concerned. But she knew how the rest of him looked like, too. She didn't have to _see_ . . . she just remembered. He was easy to remember. He was unforgettable.

He smiled. Her breath caught. "Good," he said. "Very good." She watched him closely. So she couldn't not notice when those beautiful eyes ― on their own accord, seemingly ― drifted to her lips. Rested. Heavy-lidded. "Very, very good."

She let her own eyes drift down to stare. Tried to catch her breath. He noticed. He blinked. He drew away, gulping.

"Don't do _that_!"

They stared at Dedalus, who still stood before them, camera in hand.

"That was the perfect shot! Remus, you tell them."

Remus Lupin looked taken aback at being put in the spot light. "Er, he's right. It _was_ a perfect shot."

She blinked. Had everyone noticed that . . . whatever it was?

She looked around. Stared incredulously at the guests. Some were smirking, some were averting their eyes in embarrassment, some looked approving ― her mother's hateful cousin even lifted his glass in an acknowledgement. Her mother-in-law looked like she couldn't decide whether to vomit or cackle gleefully. Even her parents looked pleased. The only one who didn't was Helena, but since she was always a grumpy old witch, even when she slept, Antoinette didn't count her.

_Well,_ was all she could think. Sirius must be jumping over the moon to know his ruse had worked, mustn't he? Now everyone knew ― or at least assumed they knew ― that she and he were deeply in love. The way he had looked at her . . . something tight constricted in her chest. The absolute cur! It had all been an act! He hadn't really wanted to kiss her as he'd stared at her lips. He'd been putting on a show.

As always.

She felt so disappointed that she . . . well she was furious! How dare he deliberately play with her feelings like that? He hadn't before. Before, he couldn't help being so beautifully attractive ― and she couldn't help but respond ― but it wasn't fair now that he used that beauty against her.

Please. Please God let him never find out that I . . . otherwise, he'd find a way to use that against her too. How mortifying would it be if he found out she desired him powerfully?

"You all right?" he asked, brow raised.

She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "Yes. Why?"

"Nothing. You just looked a touch . . . never mind."

"I have a headache." She thought that the perfect excuse.

"M'not surprised," he murmured.

She turned to stare ― and was hit with a jolt so powerful that she had to look away again.

_Dieu!_ He was devastatingly beautiful! No matter how many times she looked, he only seemed to get more handsome, more fascinating, every time. If she could not even look at him without becoming affected . . . internally, she groaned. Drew a short, deep breath before attempting to speak. "Why are you not surprised?"

The answer did not come.

At all.

She turned to look, she couldn't help it.

And blinked.

In puzzlement.

His fist, resting next to his plate, was clenched tightly. Her eyes travelled slowly up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, his face, his closed eyes, his black ―

_What?_

She doubled back.

His eyes were closed, and he was breathing hard.

"Are _you_ all right?" she had to ask.

His eyes flew open, turned to stare into hers. "Don't ―" he stopped abruptly, looked down, breathed. "Don't _look_ like that."

She froze. _Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu._ Licking her lips, she asked carefully, not-caringly, "Like what?"

He blinked, stared, cleared his throat. "Well . . . well like you're angry with me."

She breathed in relief. "Oh. I'm not. Angry with you, that is."

"Oh? Good. Then."

She watched him reach forward, take her glass again, and gulp. Everything.

She frowned. Surely _he_ wasn't angry because he thought she was angry at him? Just what was his problem?

Sirius was in a state bordering on heavy discomfort.

She didn't know.

She didn't know what she was doing, didn't realise. She had no idea just what she was inviting.

The next two weeks were going to be pure hell. He'd rather be tortured by Voldemort than have to cope with staying in the same room as her. Not to mention, just how would he explain that they weren't going to be sharing a bed? She clearly expected them to . . . consummate ― Merlin, just thinking the word made him ache ― so how would he go about it?

_Do you even have to go about it?_ said that same little voice that questioned just about everything he did nowadays.

_Yes I bloody do!_ he thought savagely. _I don't want to stay married. I want to choose my _own_ wife_.

_But will she be as lovely as Toni? Will you lust after her like you do your present wife? Remember, she's your _wife_. Wife! She's _yours_ now. Legally. In the eyes of every ―_

_Oh, shut up._

But he couldn't help listening to his thoughts. They welled up an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness towards Antoinette. Along with an overwhelming feeling of pride that she was his. Finally.

He snorted. He was becoming demented. Talking to himself. What idiot talked to themselves?

A desperate one, apparently.

". . . tograph them while they kiss, Dedalus," Jame's voice drifted in. "That way they'll have something to show their ― _ouch_!"

Sirius lifted a brow at James's glare. It wasn't as if he'd _deliberately_ let his foot collide with his best friend's shin. No, it had slipped. On a napkin. That he'd dropped. Earlier.

"Something wrong, James?" he asked innocently.

James smiled, but it was tight. "No, no, a mosquito bit me."

Sirius couldn't resist. "Must have been a rather large one, judging by your yelp of pain?"

"Yes. Almost foot-sized."

Sirius smirked.

"But," James added, and Sirius straightened, "the very unfortunate happening of the foot-sized mosquito did not distract me from what I'd been about to suggest, and that's ―"

"You're not hounding Sirius, again, are you James dear?"

"Er . . . no, Lily."

"Good. You can hold Harry, then. He's asleep, so be quiet."

Then Sirius saw, in the corner of his eye, Lily tip him a small wink.

Grinning, mentally thanking Merlin for overly suspicious over-controlling wives, Sirius turned back to his thou ―

"That's an idea!"

― and groaned. "What's an idea, Dedalus?"

"One for the future," he said, holding up his camera as best he could. "What d'you think, Mrs Black? A kiss for the camera?"

Sirius's tongue had all but formed the word "No" but before he could get it out, Frank Longbottom ― hearing Dedalus, and approving ― shouted, "Go on, Sirius!" and the rest took up from there.

He mentally glared at all the Order members present. They were the only ones out of all the guests (besides his mother) that _knew_ he disliked his present situation ― knew it was all an act ― yet they still persisted in pushing. Some friends he had.

Glancing at Antoinette, he saw that she looked stunned and pale. "I won't push you," he murmured.

Her eyes widened, turned to his. "You do not mind?"

His own widened at hearing that. She was actually considering? He didn't think she would. Surely she didn't want him to know she desired him? His groin clenched again at remembering that. "_I_ have to," he reminded her.

Her eyes shuttered. "Of course. What other reason could there be?"

He frowned at her, then at the little man with the violet top hat. "All right, Dedalus, get on with it."

"Sure you don't mind?" Dedalus tried.

"I wouldn't have said it if I _did_!" Sirius growled. "It's just . . . Toni and me prefer to keep our relationship to ourselves. We don't like being put on display." He said this for the benefit of everyone, not just Dedalus and the other Order members, who knew it was all a load of dung.

"Exactly," said Antoinette, leaning forward. "We have discussed this at length. Please Monsieur, know that I am only sitting for this picture because my husband has wished it. And this is our wedding day. We must have some sentimental remembrances of it, oui?"

Sirius was surprised. She'd actually, willingly, participated in their performance, without any nudging on his part. He grinned. "Well Dedalus. You heard my wife. Get on with it."

_Yes, get on with it,_ Antoinette thought. _That way it will be over with sooner._

Her heart thumped so erratically, she was certain Sirius could hear it.

"How would you like us?" she heard him ask.

"Why don't you do what you usually do," was the reply.

What they usually did? _Ha!_

"Oh, you mean like this."

Suddenly, she felt warm pressure on her right cheek. Then on her left. Sirius was cupping her face. His thumbs caressed her jaw, her neck, lightly fluttering. Gently, he urged her to face him. She did, unable to form a thought.

Her gaze went straight to his lips.

"Yes, yes, exactly like that. Then . . . well you know what comes after, Sirius."

They lifted in a small smile. "Yes, I should say I'm an expert at that."

Distantly, she heard the room chuckle. _Oh please, _please_ now_. She couldn't wait another moment. She consoled herself with the thought that the kiss wouldn't last long.

Again, with his hands, he urged her up to meet his lips. She didn't need urging.

They skimmed, touched, held.

Under closed lids, her eyes widened. He wasn't stopping!

_Why are you thinking about that now? You have what you want. Enjoy it!_

She opened her mouth, just slightly, but it was enough for him stiffen; enough for his lips to firm harder against hers. She felt, for but a moment, the tantalising brush of tongue before, quick as anything, he ended the kiss.

He didn't pull away. He did lift his hands from her face, but not to take them away. He settled them around her instead, pulled her close.

Antoinette let herself be pulled; let her hands rest in her lap, let her head rest on his chest, too amazed at his fluctuating actions. Not understanding anything, and not really caring.

His hands were hard at the small of her back, and at her shoulder. His heart thumped wildly under her ear. She could feel he was trying not to breathe hard. Delight and pleasure suffused her. He'd been affected. Against his will. It didn't matter that it was only because he was a man and she was a woman ― he was still attracted to her.

She tried not to smile too hard ― and thanked Merlin that no one could see her face.

xxxx

It showed just how much he affected her, when she didn't even notice that the camera flash had gone off three times. Once when they were just about to kiss. The second time when they were kissing. And the third time when he was holding her.

It took the thunderous clapping and, from some, the thunderous howling, for her to finally realise. That, and Dedalus's, "Now that was lovely. Three shots. Should get them framed."

"When'll they be ready?" Sirius asked.

"Long before you get back."

"Speaking of getting somewhere . . ." Sirius stood up. A hush fell over the assembled crowd.

"It's time for us to leave." He looked down at her, grey eyes piercing. Extended a long-fingered hand. "Toni."

She placed her fingers upon his. They closed about hers, and tugged. She stood.

And had to suffer through another round of congratulations and farewells. But this time Sirius was by her side, his hand still locked with hers.

"I don't think we're up to that yet," Sirius was answering her cousin's question.

"Zat iz not what your mozzer iz zaying, Monsieur Black," Jean-François DeMal said in his heavy accent. "She iz telling uz that we can expect a babe in, oh, a year'z time."

_What?_

"And judging by your performas wiz ze camera jus now . . . one mus wonzer if zis marriage iz not one of nezezzity."

_How dare he?_

"You may inform my mother-in-law that _we_ will decide on the matter of having children, and when, and no one else," she told him, in French. "In case you have forgotten, Jean-François, I am still only seventeen, and Sirius is twenty-two. We have plenty of time left."

Jean-François stared. Looked her up and down, and sneered. "You better watch yourself, Antoinette. These English have taken away your manners. You know better than to speak like that to your ―"

"If you finish that sentence, DeMal, I'll peel off your scrotum, boil it tomato paste, and make you eat it," a dangerous voice intruded.

Jean-François jumped.

Antoinette jumped.

Sirius shrugged at her stare. "I'm not completely heartless. The tomato paste will give it some flavour. Don't you agree, DeMal?"

Jean-François was much shorter than her husband ― shorter even than her ― and had to stare up at Sirius to look at him. He did now; took in his hard countenance, saw that he was perfectly serious, and paled.

"What is the matter, cousin? You did not know Sirius can speak French?" She felt like laughing she was so delighted. The look on his face . . .

"I want you to apologise to my wife," Sirius continued, still in French. "You have insulted her and, in doing so, have insulted me." His mouth hardened. "I'm waiting."

Jean-François licked his lip, and inclined his head. "Your pardon, Madam Black."

"Given," she sighed.

"DeMal," Sirius nodded, then ushered them onwards, leaving Jean-François behind.

xxxx

Lily stood in front of the restaurant with the other guests and waved a last goodbye to Antoinette and Sirius. She watched as the portkeys they were touching ― the bride and groom's wedding rings, in fact — whisked them away.

She sighed. "Well, that's that. Though I have to admit that it turned out a lot more . . . colourful, shall we say, than I'd imagined it was going to be."

"I'll say," James chuckled.

"Yes, about that . . ." she whipped around, mindful of the snoozing baby in her arms. Felt deep satisfaction as her husband and his equally idiotic friends seemed to shrink before her. "_Why_ do you three keep persisting? Especially you, James. Leave him alone, would you? It isn't nice the way you keep ― stop laughing! Honestly, James. Act your age for once."

He stopped laughing. "But, but don't you get it?" he said, looking genuinely confused.

_Oh Merlin, here we go_ . . . "Get what?"

His eyes, under gold-framed glasses, flitted between hers. He groaned. "No, you really don't get it, do you? I would have thought you'd understand, Lily, because you're a woman. You notice things better . . ."

She hated it when he hedged. "Out with it."

He sighed, raked his hair, making it even more impossibly tousled. "I've known Sirius . . . it seems like forever. I love him and know him and we've been through everything together, as Remus and Peter can attest."

The aforementioned nodded.

"So? What's your point?"

"My point is that I know him better than anyone. Better than himself sometimes. I know his character. Did you see how he's been behaving with our dear Antoinette? Acting all possessive. Soothing her hurt. Growling at everyone who so much as looks at her ― wrongly, or otherwise. Threatening that bloke's manhood . . . He's acting like _me_, or how I used to act when we first started going out." He grasped her shoulders, and she ― though she tried not to ― felt a flutter in her belly at the feel of his strong palms. That that could happen now . . . "Lily, he's in love with her, and doesn't even know it!"

Then he burst out laughing.

She blinked. He couldn't be right. He just couldn't be! He couldn't be more observant than she. He was too thick. At least, in these sorts of matters. No, but . . . she thought back to how Sirius had been behaving these past couple of days. "You've got a point, I suppose. Though I don't expect he's in love with her yet. But he's certainly getting there." She bit her lip. "But I'm so happy for him. Imagine, to think he feels so strongly for her, and after only two dates."

"He's been obsessing over," said Remus, hands in pockets. "Day and night. You should have heard him last night. He'd actually drunk quite a bit by the time he started raving."

"What did he say?" Lily pounced.

"That he felt horrible because she'd never want him. Ever."

"Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. _Ever_," James concluded.

"What? That's ridiculous. Anyone with eyes can see ―"

"Yes," Remus said, staring at her, "but perhaps _they_ don't, Lily."

"I suppose you might be right, dear wife, and she doesn't love him. Or at least doesn't know she loves him," James said. "That could be the reason why he's acting so primitive. I mean, I only stopped acting like that when you told me you loved me, Lily. Then I was sure of your emotions, and couldn't care less _who_ looked at you."

"Why, thank you," she said dryly.

He blinked. "I didn't mean it like that! Of course I care about who looks at you. I just don't get the urge to murder them straight away. That only happens when they keep staring at you without stopping." He paused, frowned. Blackly. "Like that _stupid_ berk Hadrian Blu ―"

"All right, all right," she interjected before James could start to rant.

Remus and Peter laughed, unmindful of James's glower.

xxxxxx

"Where are we?"

"Can't you guess?"

She turned to her husband. He was nothing more than a dense figure by her side. She peered through the gloom.

His brow was raised.

She humphed, and looked about her.

It was night. Dark though it was, she knew that they currently stood upon a cliff. In fact, right on its edge. She heard more than saw waves crashing into the cliff-face, could feel the salt in the air, could smell the sea.

"We're at the seaside."

"Very good. In fact, we happen to be in Greece. At Knossos. A very muggle community, but which also hosts the highest concentration of wizards in the Mediterranean."

Greece? He had taken her to Greece? "Mon Dieu . . ."

He chuckled. "If this impresses you, just wait until next week."

That caught her attention. "What is happening next week? Sirius?"

In answer he shifted next to her. She felt a fleeting press of his hand against hers, then space.

"What are we doing here exactly?" she asked, completely forgetting her previous question. Then she had a horrid thought. "Are . . . are we going to _camp_ here?"

His chest rumbled with laughter. "How terrified you sound. But no, we're not."

She breathed. She had never been camping before and was quite sure she would not enjoy it.

"We're waiting."

She straightened. "For whom?"

She was sure he pointed. His shoulder moved, brushing her face. His spicy cologne drifted under her nose and she breathed deep. Her head whirled. "For that."

She squinted in the direction he was pointing, and could see nothing. "What?"

"You can't see it?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Non. All I see is black."

"You must not be used to seeing in the dark, then."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask just how _he_ could, when she heard something.

A very definite _fwap!_

Then another. And another. And another.

"It's a bird," she deduced. "A large bird."

"No . . . it's a winged horse. A Granian, to be specific."

"Oh, I should have known."

"You don't sound . . . impressed."

She almost laughed at his surly tone. As if he'd been wanting to impress her. No, he was mostly likely upset because she wasn't awed at all the trouble he went to. "We use winged horses at Beaubatons. We raise them and breed them. "

"That explains it, then." He sounded less grumpy.

The _fwaps_ grew steadily louder. Ten seconds later, one gigantic winged horse came into view, dragging behind him a flamboyant chariot.

The driver ― an elderly man wearing the ancient _chiton_ robes that Greek wizards had been sporting for the past couple of thousand years ― shuffled down from his place behind the horse's reins. "Yasu, Kalinihta," he greeted, and bowed. His hair was all grey curls and done up in an elaborately styled ponytail at the base of his neck.

"Good evening," Sirius said.

The man smiled, and gestured to the gold chariot. "We are very pleased to have you here at Knossos. We hope you enjoy your stay on our wonderful cliffs. It is customary for Aristocles to lead new guests for a loop about the skies. So that you may see from up high, how things are down low."

At first Antoinette had wondered whether Aristocles was the man's name, then realised it was the name of the horse.

His English was heavily accented and difficult to understand.

"I only paid to have Aristocles take us to the villa."

Antoinette turned to Sirius. He was frowning.

"Ah . . ." said the man, and blinked.

"I want us to view the grounds, the beach, and the cliffs, on our own. On foot. It's more . . . romantic that way, don't you agree?"

Personally, Antoinette did not, and didn't think the Greek man did either.

"I mean," Sirius continued, "all the potentially romantic moments would pass too fleetingly as we soar through the clouds. Not to mention, it would be damned cold. Don't you agree?"

_No, no _I_ do not agree. I do not want to walk tomorrow. I do not want to get hot. I would rather fly in the chariot. _

And so what if it was cold? The colder the better. That way, they'd be forced, out of necessity, to come closer together, to share body heat. _She_ certainly wouldn't complain . . . but _he_ would.

Of course. _That_ was why Sirius wanted to avoid staying in the chariot for as long as possible. That was why he had arranged for it to take them straight to the villa.

She should have guessed.

She wasn't as hurt now as she might have been even an hour ago had she figured something similar out then. No, because she now knew that he ― though he desperately didn't want to be ― was attracted to her body.

He was feeling insecure in his reactions ― his potential reactions ― to her. He'd likely never felt as insecure before, and the knowledge buoyed her. That _she_ was causing him to feel insecure was placing a large boost on her self-esteem.

So no, she was not so irritated with him. In fact, she found it bemusing that he had gone to such lengths just to avoid having to touch her.

It would be much easier for her now to . . . her heart thumped, her lips twitched in an effort not to smile. Well, this was certainly an interesting turn around, wasn't it? Not at all how she had imagined her honeymoon with Sirius was going to be.

"Ah . . ." said the man again, and nodded. He could not dispute a customer. "Of course. I, George, and my best friend Aristocles, will take you to the villa."

Aristocles tossed his beautiful mane, spread his large wings ― Sirius had to duck a little ― and snorted.

"Shh, be quiet!" said George, as though Aristocles could understand. "We will fly around twice tomorrow to make up for now, yes?"

The horse quieted instantly.

Antoinette blinked. Of course winged horses were magical, but . . . _hers_ had never responded to her commands like that.

At the urging of George, Sirius, hand in hers, placed her up into the chariot, then took the seat beside hers.

There was a brief jerk as they first lifted into the air, then the constant inevitable wavy motion caused by Aristocles's wings.

And with the first _fwap_ of the large wings, Sirius's thigh brushed against hers. No sound was heard from either of them, though she liked to think she felt his thigh harden. This lasted for another four more _fwaps_ before he moved along the seat ― literally shot away until there was no where else to go ― and stayed there.

She grinned ― quickly straightened her lips, promptly remembered it was too dark to see anything, then grinned again. And just to make sure (because Sirius could see in the dark) she turned to the side.

Let everything just roll past her.

This journey was not a novelty for her. She'd had many of the like before while travelling to and from Beaubatons; the only difference this being a chariot instead of an enclosed carriage.

Sirius had been right. It was cold. Glancing at her new husband, observing the folded arms and the set expression on his face, she omitted wishing for him to put an arm around her. He almost literally simmered, and oozed out displeasure. He looked too hard, too volatile, too . . . something, for her to attempt asking of him that which he determinedly wasn't inclined to think about, let alone give.

Anyway, the darkness around them made it impossible to see the scenery that George and Aristocles had so heroically defended. Which brought to mind . . . just how in the world could Aristocles, let alone George, navigate in this blackness?

Could winged horses see in the dark?

And perhaps, like Sirius, George was used to it?

Just then the carriage swayed abruptly with the changing of directions and started the casual descent. In the close distance, Antoinette could make out thousands of yellow lights and the flash of boxed whiteness along dark cliffs.

The muggle village of Knossos.

Aristocles swooped down eventually upon a cobblestone area at the height of the cliff, vacant of anything save a . . . mansion.

Or villa.

The mansion, like the little muggle houses below it, was pure white, but huge, and sported a blue door and large Corinthian columns at the front. Cyprus trees, sprinkled with little lights, stretched around the area leading up to the door. From the scents on the breeze, there were olive trees nearby

"Can the muggles see it?" As soon as she asked, she wished she could take it back. Of course the muggles couldn't see it. It was a wizarding establishment.

Therefore, she received a surprise when Sirius answered, "Only part of it." He reached for her hand. Fingers first brushing her wrist, her palm, before locking them together. Then he stepped off the chariot, helped her down, and cleared his throat. "The wizard who runs the establishment has a muggle wife. She runs the muggle part of it."

"You mean it is divided in the middle?"

"Ingenious, isn't it?" he smiled, face partly shadowed in the surrounding candlelit lamps. The angles on his face that made him so beautiful to look at were suddenly more pronounced. "They profit from both worlds. And the fact that it almost hangs off the side of the cliff is enticement enough for most tourists."

"An ideal location."

"Hmm."

"But the muggles," she continued, as they followed George up the drive, hands still twined, "don't they notice anything peculiar?"

"No. There are disillusionment charms placed on anything magical. In fact, we won't meet any muggles here at all. The wizarding part is completely separate ― stretched by magic, you can say ― from the muggle part. In fact, looking at it from a muggle point of view, we only use up one room in the entire house."

"And from a wizarding point of view?" They had arrived at the entrance. The light here was brighter, less welcoming of shadow.

Sirius looked down at her. "It's an entire mansion."

George politely ushered them into the villa and went to tend to Aristocles. The owner, delighted to see them, shook their hands, then directed them up the stairs and to their room. He opened the door and bowed them in, chattering the whole way in his George-esque accent.

". . . hope you enjoy your stay in Greece, Mr and Mrs Black. Knossos is very lovely this time of year. Not too hot and just that touch of the cold."

The owner sounded like _he_ had a cold.

Antoinette, Sirius by her side, looked over the room.

It was . . . blue. Light Mediterranean blue with wave patterns carved and painted into the stone of the wall. There was no carpet on the floor, but there was a giant rug that depicted a Mycenaean battle scene, except the figures were clearly using wands instead of swords. To the left side sat pure white sofas in front of a large fireplace. To the right, a gigantic round bed; the headrest of which seemed to be carved out of the very stones of the walls.

Then she realised. The mansion was made out of the cliff.

Sirius let go of her hand and tossed his outer robe onto the sofa. "So swimming is possible?"

"Oh yes! Very very possible. Clam, er, the clam, yes? The clam is in season as well. Salty, but not too salty, yes?"

"Er, yes," said Sirius, looking bewildered. "Thank you for telling us."

The proprietor smiled, bowed, turned to leave, then halted. His enormous black eyebrows rose. "Oh yes, we also have the complimentary robes for you in the closet. The _chiton_ for the lady," he smiled at Antoinette "and for you, sir, we have the _chiton_. It is a too hot to be wearing British fashion here, yes?"

"Er, yes," said Sirius again.

"You can purchase more Greek robes from the lady down the stairs, yes?"

Before Sirius could answer "Er, yes" again, Antoinette jumped in. "We would be honoured to wear Greek robes Monsieur Kapakopolis. Rest assured that we will go down and have a look sometime tomorrow, oui?"

"Uh . . . wee?" said Kapakopolis, now looking lost himself. "I look forward to servicing the lady in anyway she requires." He bowed again.

Sirius scowled ferociously. Antoinette quickly ushered Kapikopolis out. "If you will excuse us, but it is our wedding night."

"Ah . . ." Kapikopolis was all smiles. "Of course, dear lady, of course."

She closed the door.

And did not want to turn around.

What could have possessed her to say that? That would only make them both think of . . . but it was inevitable, she supposed. They _needed_ to discuss it. They _had_ to discuss it. They could not very well put it off. Though she had a very shrewd suspicion now, more than any other time before, that Sirius did not want to consummate their marriage and was, in fact, planning an annulment in three years time.

If that were the case, she wanted to know right now.

"Sirius?"

"Hm," he grunted.

She turned, and found him sitting on the sofa, staring into the fire. Spread out behind him next to the bed was their travelling cases. She opened her mouth, blurted, "Our belongings have arrived." Inwardly, she cursed. Why was she so afraid to initiate?

"I know."

She stared at him. He did not look around, did not do anything. Didn't look like he was going to be inclined to do anything in the near future. . . _oh!_ Well, if she could not say it with words, she would say it with actions!

"I will change into my nightgown then."

He stood and swivelled so fast she almost started. "You're what?" he choked.

Her eyes widened. He looked literally like he was ill. His body was tense, his face was pale . . . _was_ he ill? "Are, are you all right?"

He had closed his eyes. They flew open now. "Yes. You just, go change. Erm, I'm going down to the bar."

Her mouth opened as he, without so much as glancing at her, strode past her to the door, opened it, stepped through, and shut it. She heard his footsteps stride down the corridor outside before they, too, disappeared.

Hands on hips she thought for a moment, then smiled. Widely.

She really didn't know when she had first decided to actively start chasing him, instead of just sitting back and observing, hoping. Was it after realising he was attracted to her? Was it the unbelievingly arousing knowledge that he, her husband, had to force himself to go to extreme lengths just to avoid having to touch her intimately?

He was so transparent she wondered why she'd never noticed before.

Because she hadn't wanted to hope, that was why. She had come into their engagement expecting her future husband to, not precisely love her, but like her enough at least, be attracted to her enough at least, so that they could have a tolerable life together. Getting instead Sirius's callousness, caustic comments, and hate was a like bucket of iced wake-up water. Since then her self-esteem, her view of herself (as least where Sirius was concerned), had been gradually declining. She had almost lost confidence in her own attractiveness. Not with others ― because she still knew, could still sense that their reactions were the same as they had always been ― but with Sirius.

Was it because he was so unbelievably handsome? Had she, Merlin forbid, felt intimidated by him? Was that why she had lost confidence? Was this how most men felt when looking at her? If so, they had her condolences.

Which begged the question: How to seduce him when he was so determinedly trying to avoid her? And by avoid she meant that he avoided looking at her, let alone touching her.

It needed a highly carefully thought out plan or else he'd begin to suspect, in which case he'd be even more determined to stay away.

The first step: she would wait for him to talk to her. When he informed her ― and he would ― that they would not be consummating the marriage she would offer an alternative instead, one that would be agreeable to them both. After all, it was only fair that she had something in return and he, righteous being that he was, would concur with that. The question was: what?

xxxx

He was a coward.

Not just because he'd run away, not just because he'd avoided ― just the thought of her in any sort of pyjamas had made him as hard as rock ― but because he'd given her ample time to fall asleep.

He'd been sitting down here for three hours now. Anyone looking at him would think he'd had a fight with his new wife, and since this was supposed to be his wedding night, they'd assume they were right.

They would pity him.

He hated being pitied.

He was also well into his third potent spirit of the night, and possibly more. He would have to ask George for confirmation. He had met the old horsekeeper at the bar earlier and, since they vaguely knew each other, settled in to drink together.

He'd let George speak; let his gruff, heavily accented tones drift through one ear and out the other. He had not absorbed anything. All he had been able to think about was his wife ― and what must she think of him now?

He snorted, tipped back another mouthful of ouzo, and grinned. Nothing. She'd put it down to him being himself. After all, he'd only agreed to _act_ like he liked her, not to _really_ like her. She knew that. That had been the best idea he'd ever had.

He grinned again. Yes, it had been a very good idea. He should have more good ideas like that. He was the expert of good ideas. Good ideas came to him naturally. Nature was full of good ideas just waiting to come into his brain and whiz about ― and when had the world started tilting?

"Oomph!"

He opened his eyes, and looked up at the ceiling.

He had fallen off his stool.

He was also beyond drunk.

He grinned stupidly. That's what he got, for drinking. He laughed, attempted to sit up, couldn't, lied back down.

He frowned.

He was pathetic. He was drunk now because he couldn't bear facing her. Couldn't bear to tell her that they wouldn't be consummating the marriage. Couldn't bear to dash her hopes ― just the thought of what those hopes were made him breathe hard in expectation.

_No, no, no. Don't think about that! _

And for some foul reason, he couldn't stand seeing her hurt. Couldn't stand to watch her beautiful face crumble with disappointment.

_She wants you._

He felt tight pleasure clench his groin, and groaned.

He sighed. He'd have to ask the proprietor for some sobering potion before he went up to her.

xxxxx

A/N: Phew! Long chapter! The next one should be up in a couple of weeks. Hopefully. Keep an eye out. By the way, does anyone know what the limits are to the M rating? I'm trying to see exactly how far I can go with this series . . . you know what I mean. If I can't do what I want to do (even in very light descriptions) then I'm going to have to skip those scenes, or post them on some other site. I don't want to post this story on the adult fiction site because most of the stories there are extreme slash, and most readers there are obviously slash readers who wouldn't give two glances at _Delaying the Heart_. Plus there's the OC matter to think about, which most people despise. Can anyone recommend a good site?

Also, winged horses (Granian, Abraxam, etc) can be found in _Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them_. Aristocles is grey in colour.


	10. Ultimatum

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: Thanks again to _everyone_ who reviewed (and read, but especially reviewed). I really do appreciate all your comments. And I am very sorry about not getting this chapter out sooner, like a promised I would. This site keeps breaking down on me for some reason, as does my, until now, trusty computer.

Again, this chapter is M rated.

Enjoy.

xxxx

**Chapter Nine: Ultimatum**

The door opened soundlessly.

Sirius stepped inside, closed it just as soundlessly, and took off his neckcloth. Upon draping it over the sofa he noticed the lamps were still on. Eyes widening, he looked towards the bed ― and breathed in relief.

_Excellent. _She was asleep.

Careful not to keep his attention on the slight lump under the covers, Sirius went about his usual nightly routine. But he turned off all the lights first so that the only glow permeating was the warmth of the fire.

Then he proceeded to get undressed.

Usually he slept without a stitch on, but he didn't think it would be wise to do that this time. Thinking of the potential scenario that would ensue ― the awkwardness that would transpire ― if he did, he slipped on a pair of muggle jeans; the only "trousers" he owned.

He lay back on the sofa, feet extended; stretched strong arms over the armrest then settled his hands under his head. Difficult really wasn't a sufficient enough word to describe his situation at the moment. It wasn't that his wife ― Merlin that word caused him both discomfort and a strange feeling of elatedness all at the same time ― was difficult. No, it was wholly Sirius's problem. Sirius's problem in being unable to cope with his new position; his new status in life. He had a family now. A family of two. And he would continue to have a family until three years had past. Only then could he get his annulment.

Annulment.

That was another problem that he wasn't quite sure how to solve yet. Just how in Merlin's balls was he going to tell Antoinette about that? He already feared seeing the disappointment in her eyes. Not that he thought she would be disappointed because she secretly loved him. No, never that. It was just that Antoinette was a very traditional person. She'd married him because her parents wanted it so. If she were told the marriage would be in name only; would be cancelled as though it had never existed, her sense about old fashioned duty and honour (no doubt brought upon by seventeen years growing up in a pureblood household) would be crushed. Betrayed.

He knew, because he would have felt exactly the same.

Sighing, he shifted his hips. The clasp on his jeans was digging into his stomach. _Who designed these bloody things? They do not make comfortable sleepwear . . ._

He supposed he could just blurt it out, but that lacked some finesse. He wasn't a bumbling oaf, no matter what Lily said. He would have to ease into the topic gently. Give little hints here and there. Antoinette was intelligent. She would figure it out.

And that brought about another problem. He hoped she didn't figure out his other plans; his plans involving their living arrangement. Sirius had already decided that he would not be able to bear living under the same roof as she for three years straight. He would not be able to last that long without . . . so he'd decided that they wouldn't be living together. Sirius would be living where he lived now; in the house his late Uncle Alphard had gifted him, and Antoinette would be living with his mother in Grimmauld Place.

And he would not be telling her until after the honeymoon was over.

This might be considered harsh on his part, but Toni and his mother seemed to have got along well the last time he'd looked. Though he normally wouldn't wish his mother or Grimmauld Place on anyone, he had a feeling his wife would fit in there. She was pureblood. She was used to all the restrictions such a life brought with it. Yes, she would be happy there. Or at least, that was what Sirius constantly tried to convince himself of.

There was just that little problem of his mother and what she would think of the whole thing. She might get it in her head to take back his gold if she realised he and Antoinette weren't having sex regularly ― which would, Merlin forbid, deny her a pureblood grandchild ― so Sirius would have to make habitual visits, at least twice a month, whereby he'd take his wife somewhere. A restaurant. Then bring her back in the morning, supposedly sated.

He shuddered at the whole thing. Having to willingly step foot in Grimmauld Place, not to mention stand within breathing space of his mother, was not a scenario he looked forward to. He'd rather eat his own arm.

He shuffled to his side, head pillowed on his arms; stared into the faintly yellow-lit room. A warm glow pervaded, casting ominous shadows on the furniture. It, Sirius reflected sombrely, perfectly mirrored his mood at the moment. He fell asleep to the crackle of the fire in the grate and the splintering of the ash-turned logs.

xxxx

Antoinette, still tucked under the bed covers, waited until she was sure Sirius was asleep, opened her eyes, then smiled. Ecstatically.

Twelve o'clock had long since past, and Sirius had only now shown up. He hadn't bothered to join her, she was sure he hadn't bothered to look at her, and now he had fallen asleep on the couch. Obviously, he was waiting until the morning to tell her of his plans. That was no problem; she had always had a patient nature. The only problem she _could_ foresee arising was how she was going to outline _her_ plans to him. He might not stand for them; might completely refuse to cooperate with her. If that scenario transpired ― which, now that she thought about it, was very likely ― then what was she to do? Antoinette was not going to stand for being ignored her whole honeymoon (this might be the last and only one she would ever have, after all). She knew now what she wanted him to do. How to go about making him cooperate?

It would take some heavy planning. He was the most stubborn male she'd ever met in her life, and was quite sure that if he didn't want to do something no one could make him. Discounting helping unfortunate peoples, that is. His sense of duty seemed to be even stronger than his stubbornness, as their entire courtship proved.

She turned on her back, stared up into the shadowed ceiling. The fire cast patterned glows upon the rough stone, and Antoinette amused herself for a few minutes as a child would do imagining shapes in the clouds.

How _could_ she convince him? She had already thought of one way ― an ultimatum. If he wanted her to accept his no-consummating/annulment rule, then he would have to abide by _her_ decree. It was only fair. The only problem with this was that, in her case, Sirius might not care about being fair. After all, if he didn't abide by her ultimatum, she could hardly reciprocate and, and _rape_ him. He was much stronger than she and a far better dueller, if what his mother had told her was true.

Perhaps she should confuse him? Act incongruously. It would throw him off a bit that was true, but not completely enough to warrant an agreement on his part. It might just make him livid. She did not wish to deal with a constantly angry Sirius again. Especially now that they were going to be living together. She couldn't bare the thought of three years of, well, hell.

And if all that didn't end up working to her advantage, then Antoinette still had a few tricks up her sleeve. She wasn't French for nothing.

xxxx

Five a.m. dawned with the ringing of the wall clock, along with a completely awake and dressed Sirius. He had wanted to be ready in time for his talk with Antoinette. Also, he hadn't wanted her to wake up earlier than he and surprise him. As it was, Sirius shouldn't have bothered because she was already awake apparently, and gone.

He stared at the empty bed with is neatly made covers. The house elves must have popped in earlier. But how could he not have heard ― the house elves, _or_ Antoinette?

As he turned to adjust his boots under the fresh robes he'd put on, the door latch clicked. He looked up. Antoinette, wearing what was obviously her complimentary white chiton, entered. In her hands she held a gigantic sliver platter with an assortment of jugs, cups, and breakfast.

Sirius blinked ― then lost his breath when she shot him a quick, though no less dazzling smile, before depositing the platter on the small dining table in front of the bed. She then walked to the inbuilt cupboard, opened the door, and selected the single male chiton which draped to the left of the women's robes, all hanging neatly on hooks. Leaving the cupboard open, she walked towards him still holding the chiton, then stopped an arm's reach away.

"Here. Put this on."

Sirius took it, still staring. Her eyes flitted between his, as if in question, then her lips lifted in the smallest of smiles. His erection answered pleasurably in response.

Before he had a chance to question, "What?" she was off already, this time to his trunks. Her wand waved and a second later his clothes were soaring into the cupboard to hang beside hers.

"You should have breakfast," she announced, still busy directing his clothing. "We have a long day ahead of us."

"I know." He was the one who'd planned it all out. "Erm, aren't _you_ going to eat?"

"I already have. But I might take a, how do you say . . . another break?" She flashed another one of those smiles at him, and Sirius lost what little breath he'd regained.

He was, to put it bluntly, bewildered. He felt like he'd been knocked on his arse. He didn't know what to make of her actions, not to mention the smiles she'd bestowed him, which was not like her at all. Just what the hell was going on? Where were the questions? The assertations? The wonderings as to why he hadn't shown up last night? As to why they hadn't made love, as was expected?

He suddenly had an inspired thought. Had she guessed? Had she guessed and agreed?

He looked towards her, this time with narrowed, suspicious eyes. If she had guessed and agreed, he hadn't expected her to look so . . . _happy_ about it! She was practically bouncing. Just what had happened since last night to make her so joyous and bubbly? It was as if she had some sort of . . . secret. As if, by said secret, she had some sort of power over him. As if, with all those secret smiles, she enjoyed confusing the hell out of him, which was exactly what she was doing.

He had never seen her be anything other than cool and collected, even in the midst of anger. Even when she had delivered her biting speech at the Potter's house, announcing that she never wished to be associated with him again. Even then, she had been ― while not necessarily composed ― maintained, voice raised normally. But now . . .

He threw the chiton over the sofa's head and stared at her. "What are you playing at, Antoinette?"

The merest stiffening of her back was the only sign Sirius had that she objected to his tone. She turned, slowly, looked him in the eye. "Whatever do you mean?"

It was then Sirius noticed how displeased she was. Her tone had taken on a hard edge and she seemed to be . . . prodding at him. As though she wanted him to guess at something, to discover something; that something she was so displeased about. But he couldn't imagine what that something was.

He ignored all this, and stepped forward, inwardly smiling at her hesitant step back. "You know exactly what I mean. You've never behaved this way towards me before. I've never seen you smile willingly at me before. "What. Is. Going. On?"

She stared at him. Drew a breath. "Why did you not come to me last night?"

_So she _was_ upset about that? _He cleared his throat. "I was too drunk to." _And as if she wanted me to come? Maybe that's why she was so happy earlier?_ The thought brought forth a furious anger in him, which his hard tone was unable to disguise. "Besides, I didn't _feel_ like it."

"_Qu'est-ce que_?" she asked softly.

"You heard me."

She hesitated. "Why didn't you feel like it?"

His stomach sank._ Oh Merlin._ She had to ask him that now? He wasn't ready to tell her yet. "Because . . ." he couldn't make himself finish.

She leaned forward. "Because, what?"

"Ermm," was Sirius could manage. He was too busy staring at her lips to concentrate. "Just because . . .?"

"Kiss me."

His arousal, already half engorged, rose to full throbbing. Had she said what he thought she'd . . . "W-what?"

She frowned. Delicately. "_Tell_ me."

_No. She hadn't._ God, he was getting delusional. "Oh," he shook his head. "I mean . . . that is, er . . ."

"Ye-es?"

"Erm . . . it's actually quite a long . . . I mean . . . you wouldn't understand. I planned to tell you slo ―"

"Ye-es?"

"Because I want an annulment, that's why!" he finally burst out, unable to bear the tension.

Her eyes widened. Sirius mentally kicked himself. This wasn't how he had wanted to tell her. He'd bloody hurt her, hadn't he? He'd hurt her so badly she couldn't think. Her mouth opened. Sirius braced himself. Waited. "I know."

He stared for a moment, in disbelief, then: "You _know_!"

"It was easy to figure out," she shrugged, even though Sirius felt as if he'd been poleaxed. "You would hardly even look at me. Why would you make love to me?" Then she walked to the bed and sat on its edge. "But I won't stand for it."

This took him aback. "Er, you won't?"

She shook her head. Slowly. "_Non._ Not without . . ." she trailed off.

"Not without what?" Fists clenching at his sides to keep from walking to her and threading his fingers through her luscious hair, Sirius waited.

"Not without something in return."

He stared. _Something in return?_ What could she possibly mean by that? Which brought to mind the question: what could he possibly give her? His thoughts filled with a hundred different possibilities, all fruitless. Though he did entertain the notion of one ― and dismissed it as soon as he'd thought of it. It certainly wasn't _that_. Especially as he'd just told her they were to have an annulment. It must have been wishful thinking on his part. Sirius chided himself for having thought it was wishful thinking in the first place. Was he mental? Yes some allowance could be given for the fact that he desired her so much he couldn't ― as Antoinette herself had pointed out ― bear looking at her. But other than that . . . was he insane to be thinking that? He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

She stared him in the eye. Cool, calm, poised, beautifully haughty. "I wish . . . for a kiss."

His brain froze. "W-what?"

"I wish for a kiss from you."

"Now?"

"No, no. Not now. A good night kiss." She looked down into her lap. Finished, in a whisper: "Every night."

"That's all you want?" Sirius asked, suspicious. The thought of giving her a kiss every night seemed both thrilling and appalling.

"_Non_, that is not all that I want," she paused, drew several deep breaths.

"And?" Sirius encouraged, heart now racing in astronomical speed. It was obvious Antoinette knew that he wouldn't like whatever it was she was about to suggest.

"And you must sleep by my side."

Silence.

"You mean," he tried, after several minutes of coaxing his brain to try and catch up with his heated body, "in the same bed?"

She laughed. Finally. "Yes. Where else?"

"No," he said immediately. He would not be able to bear kissing her let alone sleep in the same bed as her. "Absolutely no. Completely no. Totally no."

She stared, stood. "Then I shall not abide by your . . . order. Good day, husband." She went to walk away but Sirius, gently, wound fingers about her elbow. "Is there something you wanted, husband?"

His teeth gritted. "Don't call me that."

"Is that not your title?"

"_Yes_," he snapped, "but if you must call me that don't do it in such a tone."

She turned fully, eyes narrowed. "And what tone is that?"

"Mocking."

"Very well," she conceded. "Now kindly let go of my arm."

Sirius did the exact opposite. He inched her forward. "No," he said softly. "Not until you tell me just how you're not going to follow my order, as you put it. I'd like to see you try."

She shrugged. "I shall simply not sign the annulment papers when they come to me."

He stared at her.

Stupidly.

Incredible. She'd just thrown all his plans in a wrench. With one simple ― but, damn it, true and undisputable ― sentence. She could easily avoid signing the annulment papers. She could easily claim that they'd consummated the marriage when the Ministry asked for proof. After all what man in his right mind wouldn't want to make love to Antoinette? Even _he_ wanted to. His argument would not go down well ― about as well as Voldemort walking into the Ministry with a peace treaty tucked under his arm, announcing his love for all muggles ― while hers . . . "Why do you want all this?" he asked finally. The only thing he could ask.

Her eyes flittered between his, then flicked down. "You are free, Sirius. You can never understand what it is like to be . . ." She looked up at him with something akin to expectance. "It is only . . . can I not have something from this marriage? Can I not feel wed at least? Can I not feel like a wife to you? I do not wish to spend the next three years being ignored by you. I deserve more than that."

Sirius did not need to tell her that they'd hardly see each other in the next three years. Now was not the time. But she was right. She did deserve more. He should have known it was that simple. "I'm sorry," he told her. Her eyes, which were staring at his chest, widened. He couldn't blame her. He had only ever once apologised to her.

"You agree, then?"

How could he not? What choice did he have? But it was going to be pure torture . . . "I _guess_."

"Oh!" was all the warning Sirius had before she threw herself at him, arms circling his waist, face buried into his shoulder.

Sirius stiffened the moment he felt her body come into contact with his; the moment he smelled her scent. Upon registering that their closeness was now too dangerous to be allowed, he quickly jumped away, leaving Antoinette blinking at him, arms still outstretched. "I'm glad we've got that settled, then." He raked his hair.

She resumed her everyday posture but her eyes were smiling. "You have left your chiton on the sofa." Then, still acting Antoinetteish, she walked to the door, opened it, stepped through, turned. "I shall be waiting for you downstairs, husband. Make sure to have breakfast."

_Click._ The door closed.

At least she hadn't mocked him this time. He sat down on the sofa and buried his face into his hands. What in Merlin had he got himself in to?

xxxxxx

Compared to that half hour, the rest of the morning seemed unexciting at best. There was no such thing as a beach at the cliffs of Knossos. At least, not the traditional beach. Instead pebbles littered the coastline along with tiny patches of sand, and if it weren't for magic both Antoinette and Sirius would have had severe cuts on their feet. No wonder they hadn't seen any muggles traverse this particular stretch of coast. Sirius grumbled the entire time.

"How the bloody hell that wizard expects us to walk on this, I have no idea! And this bloody _chiton_ keeps sticking to my legs! And this is supposed to be romantic?" He snorted. "Some bloody honeymoon!"

Antoinette felt it prudent not to point out ― as she watched her husband comically trip over the hem ― that, as they were near the sea, of course the spray of the water would wet their robes, thus rendering them unsuitable for walking in. She also didn't think it was wise to point out that the same thing would have happened had they been wearing their regular robes. Instead she helped haul him up by the arm. "You know, all this could have been avoided had you only let Aristocles fly us around last night." She'd said that in French, which had got Sirius's attention. She had never directly spoken to him in her native tongue before.

"Yeah? Well . . . I guess you're right," he admitted. After that his grumbling ceased dramatically, with the exception of a few heated "bloodys" under his breath.

They had a late lunch on a picnic blanket in the vast olive groves behind the villa. Sirius started complaining then, too. "I can't believe they made us pick this the muggle way."

Antoinette did not bother pointing out that this activity was also shared by the muggle inhabitants of the villa, and so, magic could hardly be used in their presence. She was sure Sirius knew that already. He was just determined to be stubborn and ornery ― no doubt some sort of subconscious payback in response to her ultimatum that morning.

And she still couldn't _believe_ that had worked. That he had actually agreed to it.

"They make a greater profit if vacationers do it for them as an activity."

"I know that." He bit into an olive, looked her over quizzically. "You know, you really should wear some sort of hat. A large one."

She blinked. "Whatever for?"

He leaned forward, almost without thought, then skimmed a long finger, slowly, across her jaw. "You don't want to get sunburned. Your skin is very fair." Then he turned away to watch the scenery.

When Antoinette got her senses back ― which took a few minutes ― she did the same. Thirty or so muggles carried woven baskets and stood beside trees, picking the olives. There were some wizarding families (easy to spot by their lack of muggle fashion sense) but as they spoke only Russian, Bulgarian, and Italian there really wasn't any point getting to know them. She looked down at the two large baskets in front of hers and Sirius's feet. "Do you think we have enough?"

"I'm sure," he murmured, then reached into the picnic basket that was positioned between them and selected a piece of cheese which he popped into his mouth. He reached in again, looked around discretely, then tapped his suddenly appeared wand on the rim of the basket. With a flourish, he removed a perfectly conjured piece of women's headgear. A muggle hat; wide-brimmed, white, and ribboned.

Antoinette stared, open mouthed. Sirius plopped it on her head and spent a moment adjusting. "That's better." He grinned, and Antoinette lost her breath again. He was full of all sorts of surprises today; acquiescence being the least of which. He was suddenly so amenable. No, that wasn't it . . . charming. He was being charming. She blinked.

He cleared his throat and looked down. "It's getting late. We better pack up."

"All right."

As they made their way back up to the villa they spotted Aristocles swooping down onto a nearby paddock. Antoinette sucked in her breath, and quickly looked behind them. The group of about forty muggles and wizards, having no doubt seen she and Sirius pack and walk off, were now following them back to the villa. She tugged Sirius's arm. "They will see Aristocles. The muggles, they'll ―"

"Shhh," Sirius had placed two fingers over her mouth. "No they won't. I'm sure his wings have some sort of charm placed on them."

She tugged his fingers off, leaving them trapped in her hand. Ignored the slight tingle they'd left on her lips. "But what about his size! They can hardly disguise _that_."

"Then I'm sure Aristocles is completely invisible," Sirius said matter-of-factly and, twining her hand with his now uncaptured fingers, continue to lead onwards.

"What if you're wrong?"

He stopped, sighed, turned. "This is really bothering you so much?"

"I suppose not," she was forced to admit.

"Even if I were wrong there are always memory charms."

She frowned. She had never liked the thought of placing memory charms on children. "I suppose."

"Come on," he tugged. With only a slight hesitation in her step to show her indecision, Antoinette followed.

That night they dined on the terrace with the rest of the wizarding guests. They had both decided to forgo wearing the chiton. "I'll never be caught dead wearing that again," Sirius had declared before throwing on a midnight blue star-speckled robe with a high collar. He had also elected to wear knee-high black-polished boots. The effect was quite devastating. He had never deliberately dressed handsomely in her presence before, with the exception of their wedding day, but since then he had been clothing himself to masculine wizardly perfection. She could barely think anymore, and found herself constantly breathless, as if she had just committed a strenuous exertion. She now found that she could finally commiserate with Sirius, because she could not bear looking at him. And every time he took her hand was a lesson in restraint. More often than not she felt like tugging that hand and dragging him back to their room.

And the witches! _Ooh_, she hated them! How they stared, how they try to get his attention, how they flirted! The only reason Antoinette had not done anything ― verbally or otherwise ― was because Sirius never flirted back. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice them. He appeared more interested in his meal, which consisted of something indescribable wrapped in fig leaves with a side dish of sprinkled goat's cheese. A bottle of red wine, which Sirius kindly consented to share with her, topped the meal.

When ten o'clock came by they finally made their way to their room. Antoinette was well aware of the jealous looks she garnered from all the women on the terrace, and a small spark of something bounced in her stomach. He was _hers_ and, if everything went as planned, he would stay that way. At least until her virginity was taken care of; until she finally got to sample him. She tried to tell herself it didn't matter if they parted ways after that. Then she remembered that they wouldn't be able to. Not really.

Sirius unlocked the door, ushered her in, then locked it again. As usual, he didn't look at her. "Toni . . . you go do what you have to in the bathroom."

They'd both had a bath after the olive picking, so there was no need for her to ― then she realised that Sirius was giving her a chance to change clothes away from his presence; away from the awkwardness. She smiled in answer, picked out her nightgown from the cupboard, then walked to the bathroom.

She was beyond nervous. _Which is ridiculous,_ she told herself. Yes, they hadn't known each other for very long, but they were hardly strangers now. They were married, for Merlin's sake! He was her husband, and she herself had stipulated the agreement. She wanted that kiss. Tonight and every night thereafter. Then why was she so, so . . . blinking at her reflection ― which looked pale and a little lost ― she changed into her nightgown. She even took the time to brush out her hair, let it flow over her shoulders and down her back in a wave of brilliant white-gold. A glint in the mirror caught her attention, and she held up her left hand.

Her wedding ring.

For some reason, the sight and its position gave her assurance.

She tugged at the collar of her nightgown, securing it even more firmly about her neck. It was modest, to be sure, but then most of her clothes were. The long white sleeves draped a little over her fingertips, and the hem covered most of her feet.

She took one last glance at the mirror ― which offered nothing she hadn't seen before ― then reached for the doorknob . . .

Sirius heard the click of the latch as the bathroom door swung open. The padding of bare feet followed soon after. He heard the rustle of the sheets as they were flipped over; felt the bed dip slightly as his wife slipped under the covers.

He was pretending to be asleep.

He knew it wouldn't work, but he was pretending anyway. He had extinguished all light except that of the fire, so even if she were to come around to his side of the bed she wouldn't see that his eyes were open. Wide open, and panicked.

The truth was: Sirius didn't trust himself. He didn't trust to keep his hands to himself. Just the thought of her being in a bed with him blew his mind, leaving only those baser of emotions functioning. And knowing that it wasn't just a thought ― but right now, at this moment, an actual fact ― was enough to make his head spin. Therefore, he was panicking. Silently.

He felt more than heard her sigh. Through his nightgown ― he'd had to wear one to remain sane ― and on his back. He instantly stiffened, realised that was a mistake, then tried to loosen his limbs.

Too late.

"I know you aren't asleep," her voice, soft and evocative, came right into his ear.

He trembled. God, it just wasn't fair. "Hmm," was all he managed.

She sighed again. In frustration. "Well? Did you forget?"

"No," he strangled out.

"Good."

Long moments past. Sirius wondered when she would get tired of being patient. He didn't have to wonder long.

"Well?" she asked again.

Breath hissed over his teeth as he sighed. "All right," he conceded defeat. The silent battle of wills had left him aching. "Shuffle over."

He felt her obey. Merlin, she'd been almost draped over him. The thought made him groan.

"What is it?" he heard her ask.

"Er . . . nothing. So how do you want to do this?"

"Well, I had always assumed the couple had to be facing each other . . ."

Sirius turned before she'd finished the sentence. Propped himself onto an elbow. "Better?"

Her eyes widened as they looked up into his. "Yes."

He clenched his fists to keep from reaching forward and yanking her into his arms. Seeing her lying there, almost beneath him . . . "_So_, how do you want to do this?"

Her brow quirked. "Don't tell me you have never kissed a woman before?"

He had to smile. "Of course I have, but this is your stipulation. I don't want to be doing anything . . . inappropriate."

She hesitated. "I wouldn't mind."

His entire body tensed. He felt it. Felt her see and feel it. Saw the rise and fall of her chest grow heavier. He could almost smell her want; could see the desire in her eyes. He knew she saw the same when she looked at him. He couldn't stand it anymore.

He bent his head. Closed his eyes. Searching, searching. It seemed to take an age to find her lips. When he finally did, it was like sinking into the softest flower petal. He felt her acquiesce, felt her lips soften, felt his own harden. Their mouths brushed together, the lightest of flutters. He wanted more. He wanted harder. He pressed down, deepened the kiss. Heard her gasp.

That was enough.

He made himself stop. To lift his head, to clear his thoughts ― but he didn't get any further than that. All he'd planned to tell her vanished as he felt her shift beside him in a breathy little moan, felt the fingers of her left hand wrap into his hair, felt her urge him down until their lips met again.

She kissed him.

Voraciously.

His entire being ― his senses, his body ― felt stunned. Frozen. He couldn't move. Something shifted in his chest, something both painful and glorious. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. He could only reciprocate.

When her tongue entered his mouth . . . he shuddered uncontrollably. Sirius would never know where he found the strength of will to do it, but he managed to pull away. "No, you've had enough." He hardly recognised his own voice. "You've had enough kisses. More than enough."

She whimpered.

He pulled away and fell onto his back. "_God!_ One kiss. You said one kiss. That was more than one, that was two!"

"I know. _Je regrette, m_―"

"_Don't_ apologise! You enjoyed it."

"Yes . . . and you did too."

"I'd have been mad not to." Inwardly, he cursed himself. He hadn't meant to confess that.

They lay in silence.

She sighed, shifted. At the corner of his eye Sirius saw her turn to her side, facing away from him. "Sirius . . . _merci_."

He didn't know what she was trying to convey with that word. "Good night . . . wife."

xxxxxx

She woke to the feel of hard limbs pressing into hers. Strong arms encircled her waist and back. One of her legs was tucked in between both of his while the other was shifted off to the side somewhere. His heart beat steadily and softly beneath her ear.

He was amazingly warm.

He was also naked.

At the realisation she tried not to breathe too roughly. _Goodness! _How had he come to be without any clothes? He had fallen asleep with his nightgown on. She'd seen him.

She thought back. A vague memory surfaced from the depths of the night, of someone cursing softly, complaining about restrictions or some such. She looked to the face above hers, young and yet so beautifully masculine. So unbelievably gorgeous. Well he'd certainly taken care of those restrictions, hadn't he? Taken care of them to the point where he was entirely naked. She could feel him through the silk of her gown. Hot flesh, hard bone, strong muscle ― very strong muscle. Her face flamed when she realised just how strong.

He was hard and heavy against her thigh.

She dared not move for fear of waking him.

She breathed in his scent. Spicy cologne, salt, male: all mixed deliciously to form a smell that was pure Sirius. To form a perfume that drowned her senses. Her wits flew. Her head whirled. Her eyes lost all focus. Merlin, she _must_ be obsessed. She couldn't seem to get enough of him; knew she was courting danger by remaining in this position, by not attempting to break out of his hold. But she just couldn't seem to help herself. This might be the only time she would ever get to observe him without his knowing. Tucking her chin into his chest, Antoinette stared at his face, breathing in deep. His lashes were very long, thick and sooty, resting lightly on his cheekbones. His hair, a deep black, lay tousled around his head, one thick lock curling over his eyes. He looked incredibly sexy. She stared.

Last night had been ― while not as lengthy an encounter as she would have liked ― unbelievable. Never would she have imagined that influencing him was so easy. She merely had to touch him, look at him, or say something provocative, and he was overcome. The thought sent a shiver of delight through her body. Her palms literally tingled. She had the overwhelming desire to run them over his naked chest, but dare not. He might wake up, and the awkwardness would be too, well, awkward to bear.

Oh, but restraint was so difficult. Quite without meaning to, she arched into him slightly – and nearly moaned. The press of bodies through fine silk felt wonderful. A brief thought occurred; enough to make her heart speed up: If he felt this good through the silk, how would he feel like with no barriers between them?

But she had to go. He might wake up and she didn't want to be there when that happened. Plus she needed the bathroom.

Ever so gently and slowly she reached behind her until she felt her hand come into contact with his. She lifted it, slowly, and put it to the side. The rest was surprisingly easy. She wriggled out, taking care not to jar him too much. As she sat up her hip accidentally brushed his shaft. He murmured. She froze, eyes shooting to his face. Besides a slight stiffening around the jaw line, he seemed not to have woken.

She breathed easier, then got to the business of her arranging her morning toilette.

As soon as he heard the door to the bathroom close, Sirius opened his eyes, ungritted his teeth, clenched the bed sheets, and groaned. Loudly.

He'd awoken long before she had. Around three in the morning. He'd thrown off his nightgown, not being able to bear the restriction anymore; the feeling of permanent choking around his limbs. He'd also thought, briefly, of spending the rest of the night on the sofa ― before he'd remembered his promise. As he'd slipped beneath the sheets again he'd reasoned that he'd awaken long before Antoinette would, and thus he would be able to change back into his nightgown.

It hadn't happened that way.

Instead he'd woken to the strange feeling of contentment. Of cocooned warmth. Of their limbs twined together. Of her glorious hair spread over his chest. He'd felt her wake up; felt the slight shuffling, the loosened limbs tensing as they, once again, welcomed the world. Felt her eyes fall on him. Felt her chin resting on his heart.

She's stared at him for long minutes ― so long that Sirius almost said to hell with it ― but just as he was about to reveal that he was, in fact, not asleep, she shuffled, lifted his hand. He thought he'd loose his mind when she sat up, brushing against his already hardened erection. He'd almost . . . !

He threw back the covers and shot off the bed. He didn't need to be reminded of the fact.

When Antoinette stepped out of the bathroom a little while later it was to find Sirius straightening the uncooperative collar on his robes. She cleared her throat. "Do you need the bathroom?"

He shook his head.

She stepped in front of him, batted his hands away, then proceeded to fix said uncooperative collar until it stood straight as it was supposed to. "Where are we going today?"

"We're using the fireplace to get to Athens."

"Athens!"

He captured her hands, tugged them down. "Yes. We're going to visit the wizarding establishment there ―"

"And the Acropolis!"

"Erm." His features queried in response to her enthusiasm. "If you want."

"_Magnifique_," she smiled. "I better pack some muggle clothes." With that said she rushed off, leaving him blinking.

Sirius was tempted to question why there was no awkwardness between them this morning, but his brain was empty. He was too confused to think.

xxxxx

The day past exceedingly quickly.

They did end up visiting the Acropolis, as well as a muggle restaurant where Antoinette insisted Sirius show her how to use the felytone. He'd pointed out he didn't really know either, then embarrassed himself by shouting loudly into the mouthpiece. It was only then that Sirius remembered Lily telling him something about die-ling the numbers, but he had no idea what she'd been talking about. What did die-ling mean? Did he have to kill the felytone in order to talk into it?

Sirius felt guilty for having such a good time when there was a war going on in England, but technically he _was _working for the Order; trying to maintain a normal existence with Antoinette as his spouse. To avoid the Dark Lord's eyes roaming his way. Yes, he was one of the lucky ones. But he hated it! He _wanted_ to be on the frontline. He wanted death defying duels with Death Eater relatives. He wanted to be _involved_.

But no, Sirius's honeymoon, marriage and ― to an extent ― Sirius's very life all played a small part in a larger role that the Order of the Phoenix maintained. He was walking a very thin line, one he was asking Antoinette to tread. It wasn't fair of him, especially as she had no idea that he was doing so; that he was part of the Order. She'd thought him a Death Eater ― he'd quickly disabused her of that horrifying conclusion. But had she really been that far off? Both sides were playing a game. A cold war brewed beneath the every day one. Secret messages, neutrals, duplicity, third parties (of which the Ministry could be included) spies upon spies upon spies . . . yes, there _might_ be a spy in the Order.

_But who?_

A vague prodding intruded, seeping into the logical cells of his brain . . . Sirius shook his shoulders to get rid of it, not allowing himself to complete the thought. It couldn't be. Absolutely preposterous. Stupid. The very idea sent itches of guilt down his spine. Just because Re ― _no! _Sirius was _not_ a prejudiced.

But there had been whispers; whispers of Voldemort gathering dark creatures to his side (tempting them with everything the Ministry wasn't). Among which were ― _don't think about it!_

Besides, nobody, even Dumbledore, was sure that there really was a spy. Sirius was more inclined to believe there wasn't. Probably from a false sense of hope, but also because he hadn't been attacked yet. If there really was a spy surely they would have told Voldemort that the reason he'd married Antoinette was so that the Order could be funded?

He should have been dead already if that were the case.

"This is too salty."

The whispered entreaty had him blinking back into reality. Antoinette was staring down at her lamb soup with a slight grimace. He cleared his throat. "I'll have it, then."

She smiled at him, then handed over the bowl.

They had chosen to have dinner in their room that night. They'd both already changed into their night clothes. This time Sirius was not going to pretend to be asleep. He wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible so that he _could_ get some sleep.

As he ate the soup Antoinette slipped beneath the covers. Propping herself on the pillows, she stared at him. Expectantly. Sirius, in a moment of unexpected cowardliness, deliberately slowed his eating. He admitted he still might be a _little_ apprehensive about getting into bed with her. Unfortunately there was only so much soup, and he finished it quickly despite trying otherwise. He fiddled with the cutlery, stacked the plates, moved them to the side table ― and heard his wife sigh, loudly, behind him. Sirius cringed. He was behaving very obviously.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say.

"_Ça ne frait rien_," she said very quickly.

Of course Sirius knew very well that it did matter; to her at least. It finally occurred to him that his new wife might be, if not embarrassed, than feeling awkward about their arrangement as well. She probably wanted it over and done with just like he did. She was probably regretting it now.

Sirius was wrong, but he didn't know it.

Antoinette was not feeling apprehensive, and she hardly regretted her decision. No, she wanted to seduce him; had been striving for it since the day of their marriage, two nights ago. And Sirius was making it very difficult for her to even try. Of course when they were kissing it was much easier to get under his skin, to provoke him. But with the way he was acting . . . she thanked Merlin she had made that bargain with him otherwise they never would have kissed, or slept in the same bed, or . . .

She continued staring at him as he slid in next to her, careful not to touch. Oh, he definitely did not like being there. He was very stiff, even in the flowing nightgown (or perhaps partly because of it). She spared a moment to look over that nightgown. It was almost identical to hers, but then, wizard's sleepwear usually was. The only difference being Sirius's was open at the throat and his sleeves were longer.

She touched his arm to get his attention. He tensed, but didn't look at her.

"Ready?"

She wondered if his jaw could get any tighter. He nodded. Once. Then, without a moment's hesitation to reveal what he was about to do, he reached forward, yanked her into his arms, planted his lips over hers, and kissed her. Hard.

For thirty seconds.

When he released her she was dazed. Couldn't think. Couldn't _breathe_.

"Good night," he said, voice heavily ragged. Then he promptly turned over and pretended to sleep.

Antoinette could only blink.

_Well . . . this will _not_ happen tomorrow night, _was all she could think. She slid deeper under the covers, still dazed. Her fingers found her tingling lips, and she allowed herself a small smile. There was no pretence about their situation now. Each knew they desired the other. He couldn't expect her not to know now, not with _that_ performance. He was so obvious about it. Then again he could be hoping that she would think it was merely disgust on his part; a disliking of her character that caused him to act like that.

But she knew better.

He was mad for her. So mad that he would do anything to get out of it; anything to try and convince himself that he didn't like her.

She laughed, but only to herself.

_Soon . . ._

xxxxx

_Soon_ turned out to be _not yet_.

She hadn't imagined it would be this difficult to persuade him. Four days had past since the second time they had kissed, and she still hadn't moved any further in her pursing, for the simple reason that Sirius never let her. As soon as they got in to bed together he would yank her towards him and proceed to kiss her witless for thirty seconds before turning over and pretending to sleep. She could hardly complain. After all, he wasn't breeching their arrangement. Was, in fact, following it to perfection. But it was so unfair!

She looked at him now ― lounging on the picnic blanket with his hands behind his head. Gorgeous, as usual, attracting every female's attention, as usual. And asleep.

She harrumphed.

_Stubborn wizard._

xxxx

Sirius was having a very pleasant dream, at last. To be more precise, he was having a dream. Period.

He knew he was having the dream as he was dreaming, which could account for the lazy smile on his face. Finally! He was actually getting some sleep. He hadn't been able to these past however many nights. Arousal, abrasion, lust, and a number of other reasons could account for that. And here he was, finally sleeping. He chuckled to himself. It felt so bloody good to close his eyes. The dream had him lying on the Potter's sofa with James stretched in much the same fashion on another sofa. They both drank Firewhiskey straight from the bottle. Harry sat between them on the floor playing with his foot. That last was a little odd, but since it was a dream, Sirius's accepted it as the norm.

"D'you think I could go bananas?" James asked him, tipping the bottle back and swallowing half.

Sirius watched him affectionately. "Only if you want to."

"I do want to. I'm sick of all this monotony." He drank down more.

"What monotony? We're in a war."

"Exactly! War is so boring. I wish we could get it over and done with already. Not like you're helping much, being away on your honeymoon. Oh look, I'm out of Firewhiskey . . . so when are you going to give Harry a playmate, oh best friend of mine?"

Sirius stilled. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean," said James, hazel eyes serious, "when are you going to make love to your wife so Harry can finally have someone to play with? You're dying to, you know."

Sirius sighed. "I know." Then he tried explaining that it was pointless. He couldn't make love to his wife because he wouldn't be able to get his annulment, and he desperately wanted that.

James chucked his empty bottle at Sirius's head. Bloody spurted immediately. "Now look what you've made me do. You're so bloody stubborn. What's wrong with being married to Antoinette forever? Don't you love her?"

Sirius's eyes snapped open.

_Don't you love her?_

He tried shaking away his disturbing thoughts, but the dream still lingered. Hazy, but tempting. He shivered, rolled his shoulders.

"Finally," a voice intruded; a slightly irritated voice. His head shifted. Antoinette was staring down at him from her spot on the blanket. "The sun is almost setting. We should head back."

He sat up, rubbed his neck. "How long was I sleeping?"

"Umm . . . the better part of four hours."

Sirius was impressed. Then he chanced to look his in wife's direction, and froze. She was staring at his neck where he continued rubbing it. As he watched, her eyes flicked down over his body. She let out an appreciative little sigh.

Sirius shot up before he kissed her. "Let's get this packed up."

As they walked back up to the villa from the beach, hands twined together, Antoinette asked him a question. He didn't register it. At all. He was too busy wishing he could bash in the heads of all the village men who were staring at his wife. Specifically her bottom. That was _his_ bottom. They had no business staring at it. He was so jealous that he felt his neck start to heat. How bloody dare they! Didn't they have any propriety whatsoever? To hell with it!

He stopped, dropped the blanket, and cut off Antoinette's "our last day here ―" with a jerk. Then he firmed his lips over hers.

He didn't kiss her hard and fast as he did at night. No, this time he was determined to linger, to draw out the sensuality, to show those bloody men that she was his and that they could all jump in the nearest dung heap because they were not allowed to look at her.

She didn't resist. Didn't think to resist. In fact she kissed him back. Leaned into him, stretched up, and twined her fingers through his hair. Sirius felt those fingers trail down the side of his face, his jaw, before resting, lightly, on his neck.

He shuddered. His own hands were busy trailing the length of her slim back, and down; down to massage, to cup that luscious bottom and bring it up. Their loins rubbed together. She gasped, moaned. He moved his lips slowly over hers, feeling elated when she did the same.

She drew back.

His entire being howled in protest.

She stared into his eyes, traced his lips with her fingertips. He kissed them as they trailed over his bottom lip. Then stopped when he realised what he'd done.

"Not here," she whispered, slightly breathless.

_Not here?_ _What did she mean by that?_ He set her down gently. "You're right." His voice came out in a growl, but Sirius was too aroused and jealous to bother correcting it. "What did you ask me before?"

"Oh." She blinked. "I wanted to confirm that this was our last night in Greece."

He picked up the blanket, took her hand, and began walking. "Yes. We're going to Egypt tomorrow night."

"I cannot wait to see the pyramids," she said, apparently _un_flustered.

He frowned. He was too busy wondering at her reaction to even think, let alone notice, the men they passed. He did, however, notice the owl that landed on his head just as they were about to step into the villa.

Antoinette burst out laughing.

Sirius was momentarily arrested, never having heard her laugh so heartily before.

"I'm sorry," she offered, catching his gaze. "But it was so unexpected, _non_?"

"_Oui_," he murmured, then plucked the owl from his head with both hands. It hooted.

He unwound the letter from its leg and threw it into the air. It flapped away indignantly.

Minutes later they entered their room. Antoinette went to get ready for dinner while Sirius scanned the letter.

There wasn't much to scan.

_S,_

_Urgent meeting. Come now. DON'T loiter._

_D._

The letter burst into flames and shrivelled, singeing his hand; the whole process taking only a millisecond.

In the bathroom, as she was about to brush her hair, Antoinette heard a foul expletive ― then jumped when the door banged open.

Sirius stood, clutching his left hand, and looking absolutely . . . something.

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed.

"I can't go to dinner. I have to be somewhere else."

She clutched a hand to her sleeve. "Where could you possibly have to be?" It only occurred to her, just now, that she had never asked where Sirius worked. If he did at all. "Is it work?"

"What?" he looked up. "No―_yes_! Yes, it's work." He combed fingers through his hair, making it utterly dishevelled. "There's been a . . . circumstance. Urgent. Unavoidable."

"You had better go, if that is the case."

"I am. I just wanted to tell you." They stared at each other. "I'm going now." He made to move.

"Wait!"

He froze. "What?"

"You should change. There is sand all over your robes." She stepped forward and brushed a bit off his shoulder.

His fingers snaked about her wrist, the movement drawing her eyes down. They widened. "What . . . ? How did that happen?"

He tried moving his hand back, but she grabbed it before it could disappear. He hissed. "Ouch!"

"Sorry." She tugged at it, gently. Looked into his eyes, stubbornly. He closed them, and sighed. She smiled. Slowly, gently, she ran a finger over the burn marks on his palm. "How did this happen?"

"The letter burnt itself when I finished reading it," he explained.

"Come with me." She led him into the bathroom. There she rummaged through the draws until she drew out a salve.

"What's that?"

"It is a pasteurised emergency potion." She clipped open the lid, inhaling the lavender scent. Saw him do the same.

"It smells girly."

She blinked and looked at him, unable to believe he had really said that.

He actually blushed when he met her gaze. "That was a bit first year, wasn't it?"

She humphed.

He grinned, then winced as she applied the paste to his burns. Inwardly, she was disconcerted. Who would put a charm on a letter so that it burnt up after the recipient had finished with it? The answer came immediately: the Ministry. She took a peek at her husband's face. Heavy-lidded, dark and handsome, he had never looked more vulnerable; more approachable. Did he really work for the Ministry? If so, what section? It had to be one that required the utmost secrecy. The Department of Mysteries, perhaps?

It suddenly all began to make sense. It was obvious to her now why he had needed to marry her. The Ministry needed his services, his gold, in order to fund their experiments. He and she had played a ruse so that Death Eaters didn't get suspicious as to why he was suddenly marrying. Her face flamed. And she had thought him one of them? He was the exact opposite!

No wonder he'd been furious when she had accused so him vehemently. She had even listed reasons why she'd thought he was . . . _Oh!_

She was embarrassed, guilty, and angry; angry with him for omitting to tell her where he worked. But of course it was all supposed to be very confidential, and he had never made it a secret that he didn't like her very much. Why _should _he tell her?

She finished applying the paste, then wrapped his hand up in a bandage.

He inclined his head. "_Merci_."

"You're welcome."

If her reply was a little frosty her husband didn't notice. He was too busy rushing out of the bathroom to pay any sort of attention to her.

xxxxx

Sirius stumbled out of the fireplace, and managed to right himself before falling flat on his face.

"Sirius," said a quiet voice.

He stilled, then turned, determined not to cast aspersions. Feeling immediate guilt that he'd had to think not to determine. "Remus."

His friend leaned against the threshold of the door to the kitchen. "Everyone's waiting for you . . . what happened to your hand?"

"The letter."

Remus tried to smile. "Didn't let go of it soon enough?"

"Something like that. My wife patched me up."

Moony's eyebrows rose.

"So what's happened?" Sirius asked, falling into step beside him.

Remus stopped and stared. "Haven't you heard?"

Sirius tensed. That sort of tone could only indicate . . . "What? Heard what, Remus?"

The werewolf grimaced. "The whole of wizarding Britain knows. I thought it would've made it to Greece by now . . . but of course it wouldn't ―"

"What?"

He grimaced again, looked down. "I think it's best if Dumbledore told you. Come on."

Sirius discretely glanced at his friend ― and was shocked to note how tired and drawn out he looked. The wave of guilt ― which had been steadily growing since earlier that day ― intensified. Sirius had missed the full moon this month. It had been a few nights before. It looked like Remus still hadn't recovered.

They stepped out of the corridor and into the living room.

Sirius blinked.

The entire Order was assembled. Not just the important figures, but everyone down to the rats. He even noted Arabella Figg (normally not known for pottering out of her neighbourhood) whispering quietly to Lily. No, no he was wrong. There was someone missing. Two someone's.

"What's going on?"

It didn't miss his notice that the atmosphere was dark, heavy, thick with a deep sadness.

He steadied himself. "Who?"

Dumbledore stared at him with tired, old eyes. "Gideon and Fabian."

Sirius sat down, vaguely noting that Remus had done the same next to him. "H-How?"

"It took five Death Eaters. Even though none were captured, the Ministry has haled the Prewett brothers as heroes. They have both received Orders of Merlin which, if all goes to plan, will be passed along to their sister instead of remaining in the Hall of Heroes. The funeral service is two days from now, and I urge all of you to attend ― in disguise if you wish. Their deaths were a heavy victory for The Dark Lord."

_Damn Voldemort!_ He, Sirius, should have been there fighting alongside them. "What do you want me to do?"

Blue eyes, normally twinkling, stared with an intense sadness and . . . guilt? "I'm afraid you cannot continue on with your vacation, my boy. We need you now, Sirius, in our darkest hour. In fact," the headmaster looked around, "we need everyone now. I'm afraid this war has just taken a turn for the worse. Voldemort ―" a barely perceptible shudder traced the room's occupants "― has started recruiting dark creatures to his cause. Among the prominent of which are werewolves; or at least those werewolves who are inclined to follow that particular path. Fenrir Greyback, not surprisingly, is leading them."

Sirius, James, and Peter glanced sharply at Remus, who was staring down at the floor. It had been Greyback who'd bitten Remus when he was only a small child.

"We must act quickly if we are to avoid any more casualties," Dumbledore continued. Then stared at Sirius.

He didn't hesitate. Never did it cross his mind that he would be depriving a bride of her honeymoon, of her husband. Nothing was more important than stopping Voldemort. Even her. "Where do you want me?"

xxxxxx

**Translations (those that are needed): **

_Qu'est-ce que?_ what?

_Merci _thank you

A/N: I had such fun writing this chapter, that I want to start the next one straight away. Hopefully it'll be up shortly. I wanted to continue this chapter so badly, but it wasn't realistic. This seemed the perfect place to end it. I'm afraid the following part is just going to have to go in the next chapter. There are too many things happening in this one.

Happy Reading.


	11. In Which Sirius Does Something

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: WOW! I am thoroughly bewildered at all the fantastic reviews I received for the last chapter. You have no idea how much you guys lift my spirits. I'm sure without them the reviews I would have hesitated to start writing this chapter. But here it is! And sooner than I had anticipated. Thank you all again!

This chapter has some definite, definite M-age. I've never written as much M-age as I have in this chapter.

Enjoy.

xxxxxx

**Chapter Ten: In Which Sirius Does Something.**

The meeting had lasted well into the early morning. The atmosphere — sombre, and nobody ventured to say anything of interest once most of the Order had left to their respective pursuits. Dumbledore still sat at the head of the table, looking more and more like a cross between the oldest man on earth and the wisest. Gaze knowing, and tired, and filled with the weight of the world.

His was not the only one that adopted that look.

A hand clapped Sirius's shoulder. "You right?"

He rubbed his eyes. "If I said yes, I'd be lying. If I said no, I'd also be lying."

"How 'bout you say maybe?"

"All right, then . . . Maybe."

James didn't bother pursuing the conversation along that vein anymore. Didn't mean he was going to stop talking. "How's it been the past week?"

_How has it been?_ One word came to mind: Frustrating. "Better than I had expected. We hardly get on each other's nerves now."

Dumbledore watched them.

Sirius wished he wouldn't.

"What are you going to do now?" asked Peter, reaching forward to take a sip of tea.

The gesture was so ordinary, that Sirius was momentarily arrested. It shouldn't be like that. The world felt unordinary at the moment, as if he were living through a haze of strangeness. Nothing seemed right.

"What do you mean, Wormt —?" James trod hard on his foot. "Pete! What do you mean, Pete!" Sirius glanced discretely at Dumbledore, but the headmaster was dunking a biscuit into the cup before him and seemed not to have noticed Sirius's mistake.

"I mean, what are you going to do with Antoinette Le Creux?"

"Black."

"Eh?"

"_Black_," Sirius corrected once more. "Her name is Antoinette _Black_."

Lips tightening, Peter looked down into his cup.

Sirius sighed, knowing his tone had been sharp. But still, Wormtail was taking it a bit bloody personally in his opinion. "I'm sorry, Peter. I just . . ."

"He's just being a wart," Remus injected.

James stifled a snort.

Sirius drummed his fingers on the table and looked around dully. He had no idea why he'd decided to stay back after the meeting. Every one else had left, even Lily, who'd went to take Harry home. James, Remus, and Peter had, inevitably, decided to stay behind also, even if they hadn't known why. All Sirius knew was that Dumbledore usually stayed behind after meetings, to make sure that everything was once more secure. Had he wanted to talk to the headmaster? Was that why he had stayed behind? Did he need the old professor's advice?

He settled with stating, "I have to tell my wife something," and hoped someone would comment on it.

To his relief Dumbledore, after polishing off the biscuit, cleared his throat. "Not the truth, I hope, Sirius."

Then again, perhaps he wouldn't help. "She'd been under the impression that I was a Death Eater."

Peter jumped, plashing tea over the table. Everyone else looked shocked.

Sirius grimaced. "Of course I explained otherwise as soon as I'd learned of it. Merlin alone knows what she's gotten into her head now. I can't tell her the truth, but, perhaps something close to the truth? Something to explain why we have to cut short our vacation?" He directed that last at Dumbledore.

The long white beard shone almost too dully in the candlelight as the headmaster leaned back in his chair. "Tell her that you work for the Ministry. Say you are helping in the war against Voldemort. That isn't far from the truth."

"I've decided we're not going to be living together," Sirius blurted.

James, Remus, and Peter stared at him.

Dumbledore merely narrowed his eyes.

Sirius flushed. "I don't know why I just said that."

"That is your prerogative, Sirius. Your wife, your life. I cannot interfere, I have done so enough already."

Sirius raised his head sharply at the guilt in the old man's voice. "The Ministry idea . . . that sounds good, Dumbledore. Only, what if she wants proof?"

The professor looked thoughtful. "If you do not object to the idea, Sirius, I shall conjure a license for you. It will be illegal, of course, and highly dishonest, but something tells me you will not protest the fact."

Shrugging his shoulders, Sirius smiled. "It wouldn't bother me."

"I thought not."

After several more minutes of discussion, where Sirius and Dumbledore finalised the very 'legal' document stating that Sirius was now a full-fledged Ministry official, the Hogwarts' Headmaster and the four young men left the little cottage in the country by flooing or apparating to their separate destinations. This would be the last, or second to last, night of respite they had before the really dangerous missions were put upon them; of which spying was one of the top most.

Sirius would be spying most of the time ― as in lurking behind bushes, garden statues, and back alleyways sort of spying. He was too well known to do the other kind; the kind that crooks like Mundungus Fletcher could pull off as easily as they could swipe a silver spoon from out of Lily's cutlery box; the kind where Alice Longbottom could masquerade as a cold-hearted, venomous witch. They just weren't as well known in Dead Eater circles as Sirius. Everyone knew that Sirius had disowned his parents, his family, his house, just to fight on Dumbledore's side.

Everyone knew that Sirius was a blood traitor.

And he couldn't be happier. The only problem with this was that he couldn't do any useful, information-gathering spying. He could merely skulk in the shrubbery outside some suspected Death Eater's house in Padfoot form and watch who went in and out, what parties were going on, and if any licentious scheme was being concocted in the fourth room on the third floor, which wasn't very helpful as Padfoot could not climb trees, and Sirius could not hover to look through the window because most pureblood mansions were drowning in wards; wards that would alert their recipients immediately upon being triggered by unfamiliar magic.

It was ruddy frustrating.

Sighing morosely, he stepped out of the fireplace. He had not wanted to use the suite's floo. Awakening Antoinette was not something he had been looking forward to. Better to let her sleep now and deal with her in the morning than to risk seeing her dejected face when he explained that they wouldn't be living together . . . He had his proof if she asked for it, tucked tightly into the pocket against his chest. He patted it now almost absently, relieved to hear the slight crackling of parchment.

Dumbledore had done well. As always. There had been no doubt.

Throwing a nod to the barman — who nodded back, familiar already with Sirius's face — he trod up the stairs, arrowed down the corridor, and carefully, carefully, stepped into his — _their_ room.

Once again all the candles had been extinguished, but dawn was only an hour or so away and a faint hazy light misted in through the only window in the room. Sirius carefully avoided looking at the bed while he changed into his nightrobe.

When had life gotten so complicated? He'd never before cared whether he lied to someone or not — not when it concerned the Order and the wellbeing of the muggle and wizarding populations. These were hard and dangerous times, and lying was more often than not healthier to all the parties involved. But being forced, out of necessity, to lie to his spouse, to Antoinette . . . He shivered unconsciously, and slipped in beside her. Looked at the bulbous curls they lay draped over the pillows — the only bit of her that he could see.

There was just something very . . . uncomfortable about that.

X

When Sirius awoke it was past noon; the bed, empty. He groaned, feeling almost like he'd been deprived of a favoured sweet, and burrowed into the pillows, inhaling his wife's exotic perfume. He'd fallen asleep with that perfume in his nostrils, a thick permeating fog drifting glug-like through his senses, his body, his bloody erection; which still hadn't in the slightest diminished. He shifted a bit to ease the ache, but that only made it worse. His nightgown — which that Gladrag's witch had assured him was the softest of silks — felt suddenly like sand paper, chafing against that most sensitive area.

He supposed he could always just take care of the problem, Merlin knew he needed the release.

"Fuck." He threw back the covers, disgusted. He must be getting _really_ desperate if he was thinking about doing _that_. He hadn't had to embarrass himself in that way since before his first sexual experience. He'd had no need of the activity after that.

_What she reduces me to . . ._

Shaking his head, he went for the shower. An ice cold one.

Ten minutes later Sirius, vigorously towelling dry his hair, stepped out of the bathroom and stared, stupidly, at the empty room.

Antoinette was still missing.

Now he became irritated. He wanted her _there!_ In the room. With _him_. Where she bloody belonged. Where she should have been when he woke up! It was their honeymoon! What could she possibly have to do? She shouldn't be allowed to go off whenever she pleased, and without telling him too! He needed to talk to her. Explain that they would not be going to Egypt. Explain that he had important work to do. Time was wasting!

He paced about furiously for a couple of seconds (still not really understanding why he was so furious), before tripping backwards over the uplifted corner of the Mycenaean rug.

Landed hard on his buttocks. "Oof!"

And blinked.

Slowly.

Felt a bubble of something ignite up in his throat, rise, before it erupted; spilling in great gales of chuckling, which ceased only after his stomach began to hurt. "What a bloody day." A week ago he couldn't get rid of her fast enough. Now he was upset that she wasn't around.

He was still chuckling at his folly when Antoinette walked in a minute later.

His laughter stopped as the breath left his body. Sirius wondered just when, or if, he would ever get used to her presence and the affect she had on him. As though every time he saw her, gazed upon her, was the first time. She had amazing bone structure, and the combination of gold-pale hair, silk for skin, maroon lips, dark blue eyes, her unusual though no less desirable height combined to make her the most beautiful woman in the world. His wife. Whom he could not stop lusting over, could not stop wanting as surely as he needed to breathe.

"Why are you on the floor?" He heard the confusion in her voice.

"I fell." His tone was a low, husky growl (purely unwitting on his part), and he saw now that she shivered from it.

And what _that_ did to him . . . He shot up, determined to have the higher ground in their alterations.

Her pretty eyes widened at his fast movement, but all she said was, "Ah."

"I have to talk to you." Growl.

She shivered again, but her eyes were wary. "All right."

"Let's go to the sofa."

"All right."

They stared at each other for a few minutes, before moving; sat hesitantly on either end of the white sofa. Before Sirius could start talking a house elf popped in.

"Will sir and madam be needing anything?"

The hopeful little voice made him smile. "If you have any butterbeer I'll be much obliged . . . Toni?"

"Coffee please. Black."

Eyes shining with pure pleasure at being able to assist, the little elf popped out as quickly as he had popped in. Three seconds later another pop signalled its (his?) return, and Antoinette and Sirius could see that he had not only brought them their orders, but also a plateful of biscuits and cakes.

"Yasu, Creosus," his wife said, and reached for the coffee.

The elf, Creosus, smiled wildly and popped back out.

Sirius told himself not to be surprised at all this. Not to be surprised by the fact that his wife had befriended the help. His pureblood, aristocrat wife. A wave of something tangible encompassed him. He still really didn't know anything about her, did he? What kind of person she was. He was reminded, with a sudden jolt of reality, that they had only really known each other for one week, which seemed a very short amount of time when one thought about it.

He watched her sip with the utmost etiquette. Personally, Sirius had never been a fan of black coffee. It was such a raw drink, in his opinion, more suited to people like Snape.

Not wanting to think about Snape and his wife in the same sentence, let alone that they had anything in common — the thought bought forth a mental shudder — he opened his mouth to begin . . . but couldn't. The image of Snape was stuck in his head. Now the image of Toni accompanied it. Quite without meaning to, all the while trying desperately to stop himself, he pictured them together. In bed. Naked.

And shuddered.

This made him even more irritated. Now he was disgusted at himself for imagining the whole thing to begin with. He was also, incredible though it was to him, jealous. Of nothing. Of a stupid thought that he hadn't the sense to cease before it could be completed. But he had completed it, hadn't he? And now the image would stay with him, haunt him, for who knows how long.

"Hell."

"What is it?"

Sirius gulped down some butterbeer to avoid looking at her, cheeks hot with embarrassment at what he had been thinking. "Just had an unpleasant thought, is all."

"There was something you wished to discuss?"

"Yes." He paused, licked his lip, knowing he would have to tread carefully from now on. Word everything exactly so as not to cause suspicion. "You remember the letter I received yesterday?"

She nodded. "The one that burned your hand. How is it, by the way?"

"Couldn't be better, thanks for asking."

Sirius frowned in puzzlement. What in ruddy hell were they doing? Since the beginning their relationship had never been formal. Each knew where they stood with the other on the scale of things. Why was she starting now? He found he disliked it intensely. None of that showed in his next words, however.

"I don't know if you know, but I work for the Ministry," his explained, face perfectly straight. "I've just been informed that two of my colleges have died. Good men, excellent wizards. They shouldn't have . . . Anyway, the war with the Dark Lord has escalated, Antoinette, and I'll be needed. Unfortunately we're going to have to cut short our honeymoon. As of right now."

"Well of course we must!" she gasped, surprising him. He had thought she would at least protest a little. Perhaps sulk . . . Immediate guilt threatened. That wasn't fair of him. He had known for a week now that her personality came nowhere near to that. She was no more spoiled than he was.

He had to learn to give her the benefit of the doubt. He had to learn more about her. He wasn't surprised that he was looking forward to doing so. His feelings had been changing drastically during the course of the week. For one, he did not dislike her anymore. _Could not_ dislike her anymore. In fact, he realised suddenly and with great surprise, that she had become somewhat like his friend. A friend he wished to make crazy sweaty love to, but still . . . a friend. Or perhaps not that far yet. An almost friend.

Sirius couldn't do more than blink at this revelation. "I'm glad you're not upset."

"Why should I be? Innocent lives are at stake, non? Of course you must go and help." She stood. "I'll go and pack."

"Wait, Toni, there's something . . ."

She turned at his words, eyes narrowed. "Oui?"

He stared into them, highly conscious that he was going to sound like a complete and utter bastard. And he felt like it, too. As he stared at her beautiful face, looking so wide eyed, innocent, expecting . . . The words died on his lips.

What could it hurt, he thought wryly, for them to live together for the next week? Technically, they would still be on their honeymoon. And he had also promised to kiss her and sleep by her side every day, though she had never specified for how long. Yes, he would tell her after the week was over. Then she could go to his mother, to Grimmauld Place.

It never did occur to Sirius that maybe he wanted to keep her with him for other reasons. Reasons that had nothing to do with propriety and promises. "Nothing," he smiled. "You just go and pack."

xxxxxx

Her first glimpse of the house, as she stepped out of the floo, was: moderate.

Sirius stood waiting beside the fireplace, gently tugging at the trunk in her hand.

She let him have it. "And this is Grimmauld Place?"

A dark brow creased in puzzlement. "You thought . . . didn't I tell you before? I have my own house. Bequeathed to me by my late Uncle Alphard." His arm waved in an elegant gesture. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"Hardly humble." Antoinette murmured politely, only too relieved that she wouldn't have to live with Sirius's mother. The woman was beyond repulsive.

Taking her hand with his — Antoinette stared in surprise at the seemingly unconscious gesture — Sirius led her through the two storey house, showing her the kitchen, the drawing room, everything on the bottom floor. The brief glimpses she'd had out of the passing windows revealed a plentiful countryside, dotted with misty dark hills, low heavy clouds, and dew-filled trees.

The house was certainly a _lot_ smaller than she was used to.

Antoinette did not tell her husband that.

At the end of the tour, the general impression she had was of a typical bachelor's residence, preceded by a certain old wizard glamour — the previous owner's influence no doubt.

"Where is it located?" she asked when Sirius stopped in the kitchen to make tea.

He reached for two cups out of the top cupboard, answering, "About an hour outside of London. Now where the bloody hell is that . . ." but Antoinette did not hear anymore. Whatever breath she held in her body had long since dispersed.

He had chosen to wear muggle clothes today. In fact, the very same ones she had first glimpsed him in. As he bent over to reach for the kettle, the course blue fabric stretched most decadently over his taut buttocks.

How she wanted to touch him there. No, not just touch him; she wanted to knead those naked mounds of muscle. Fill her palms until they were overflowing with heated flesh. Just thinking about it made her hot. Flushed. That expected swirling rushed through her body, her breasts, ending only when it reached that secret place between her thighs. She shifted in her seat at the table, and looked down to hide her glowing cheeks, to hide the pure lust in her eyes. _Mon Dieu_ she was almost panting! Licking her dry lips, she attempted conversation. "What do you do at the Ministry exactly?"

He stiffened, straightened, but did not turn. Filling the kettle up with water, he placed it on the stove, then consented to speak. "I'm an Unspeakable." He glanced back at her, grey eyes full of warning. "Which means I'm not allowed to speak about anything I do with anyone other than another Unspeakable. Ministry regulation. Sorry."

His tone had lightened on that last word and this more than anything made her realise how very careful he was being. Likely, he had told her too much as it was. If he'd told her any more he would have gone to prison. "I understand. My father is also employed by the French Ministry, and so is Jean-Francois. Not an Unspeakable, but fairly high all the same."

Sirius frowned, and pored in the hot water. "Remind me of him again?"

"At our reception, you told him off."

A dangerous grin replaced the frown. "Ah, yes. I remember now. He's taken my advice to heart, I hope."

"Since the only other option was for his bits to be boiled in tomato paste, I am quite certain that he has."

They both smiled.

Then Sirius placed the mug of boiling tea before her and took the seat opposite. "I know you don't take sugar, but if you want milk or anything . . ."

"No, thank you."

He cleared his throat, took a sip, then cradled the mug in his hands. "I want you to know that I'm still going to follow your stipulation, Toni. Meaning I'll still kiss you and sleep by your side."

She sipped. What was he doing? "Go on."

"But you have to understand that, like last night, I may get called away at any given time. I may not even be here at night."

"That goes without saying, Sirius. And you do not have to worry; I will not hold it against you."

His faced relaxed at her words. "Thank you. And this brings be to my next point."

Her brows rose. "Oh?"

He looked into her eyes. "There are two master bedrooms in this house. Would you like one?"

"You mean one that isn't yours?"

He nodded. "Understand that I'm not backing out of our agreement, but I thought you might want your own space."

"And if I do not?"

This gave him pause, as if he couldn't imagine why she wouldn't want her own room. The man really _didn't_ know how she felt about him. "That's still all right," he said slowly.

"Good, because I want to sleep with you."

They flushed instantly; both thinking of another term that word could be applied to. When Antoinette pulled her wits together she saw that her husband's gaze had dropped to her mouth. _Dieu_, he really was easy to provoke in that way.

"What I mean is, I have become used to feeling you next to me."

"Oh," he murmured, still staring. "That's good."

She licked her lips. His own hardened. Then, without thought, he set the mug of hot tea to his mouth, and gulped down the whole thing.

A second later the cup smashed to the floor as he started choking violently; face red, eyes watery, hand holding his throat.

Antoinette jumped from her seat and scurried to his side. "You stupid man! Open your mouth." She murmured a spell as soon as he complied. Ice cold healing water spurted out of her wand and into his mouth, down his throat. He gulped greedily.

She hugged him to her as soon as he could take no more. Sirius laughed weakly into her shoulder, arms encircling her waist. "I've never done that before."

"You idiot." Antoinette shivered at the fright she had received. He had literally poured boiling water down his throat! She never wanted to feel that way again. "Do you feel better?"

"Hmm, much." His breath ghosted over her neck. "I ought to learn that spell." He chuckled suddenly. "You know, the only reason I did that was because I'd gotten so used to drinking alcohol lately. It's become an impulse for me to tip back whenever something was on my mind that I disagreed with."

She stiffened. "And what had you disagreed with?"

He lifted his head to look at her. They were now so close that only a centimetre separated them. "I was furious with myself."

She frowned, puzzled. "Why?"

"Because I wanted you, and I didn't like it."

Her heart soared, her stomach whirled, her eyes widened. He had just admitted to trying to fight her allure, and losing. "Oh . . . I cannot believe you admitted to that."

His brow was creased thoughtfully. "Actually, you know, neither can I. It must be that whole near death experience thing." He inched her to him. "Besides, it's not like we both don't know it. You're a very beautiful woman, as I'm sure you're well aware. I'd have to be blind and stupid not to be attracted to you."

She slapped his shoulder. "Do not joke about that."

"Joke about what? My wanting you or my dying?" Now they were chest to chest.

"You dying, of course! How you can think about anything else at a time like this . . ." She broke off, frustrated.

"Why? Would you miss me if I died?"

The man really _was_ stupid. "Oui, oui, oui!"

He stared for a moment, then burst out in delighted laughter.

"What is it now?"

Sirius shook his head. "You just reminded me of this muggle nursery rhyme Lily sings to Harry. There're these five pigs . . . never mind, it's nothing important. You know, I still owe you a kiss for last night."

"Oh?" She fiddled with his collar. "I had forgotten."

He seemed amused. "I'm sure."

"I _did_ forget! You almost died, remember?"

"Let's not talk about that now, luv," and he leaned forward — not a lot, since they were almost touching as it was — and kissed her.

She relaxed into it immediately, even wrapped her arms loosely about his neck. There was no rush to this kiss. It was sensual, yes, but it was also very lazy. As if he had all the time in the world to play with her. Incredibly, this made her even more aroused.

For the first time he brought his tongue into play. He lapped at her lips first; lapped and licked and traced until he had covered every sweet inch of them. Only then did he seek. Moist silk traced, languid, around the inside of her mouth, then dipped, withdrew, and plunged. Dipped, withdrew, and plunged. Again and again and again! He even caught her tongue between his lips at one point and suckled on it strongly. Erotically. By this time Antoinette was sitting on his lap and gripping his hair as she kissed him with abandon. She noted the hard rise of flesh between her bottom cheeks and wriggled upon it, instinctively easing her own ache.

He tore away from her, head thrown back. Groaning. "I . . . I think that's enough for now."

Disappoint hit her like a wave; tumbling and heavy and aching. But she was thrilled to see that he was panting, that his eyes were glazed over with passion. She knew her own face reflected the same. "Yes. Yes you're right." She leaned toward him once more and touched her swollen lips to his. "Thank you for keeping your promise."

"You're very much welcome." His eyes, though still glazed with the remanence of passion, were gentle. "Now let's get our stuff upstairs."

She inched to her feet, legs a touch wobbly, reluctant to let go of the feel of his hard body against hers. Felt his arms slide, slowly, off of her waist.

Heard him sigh.

He stood and, just as she was about to walk onward, yanked her to him once more and gave her one, violent, kiss. "Sorry," he breathed, after releasing her. "I had to do that."

Sirius could not tell her the reason was because he had seen her looking so disappointed; because he had seen how even more lush her lips had become. He hadn't been able to resist. As it turned out he was glad he had done it, because she was looking dazed once more. Smirking in male satisfaction, he twined his fingers with hers. Shrinking their trunks he pocketed them, and led her upstairs.

He was through pretending. The heavy feeling that had been building somewhere in the vicinity of his chest had finally eased. It was all out in the open now — everything he hadn't been able to tell her, and he felt immensely relieved.

Strangely, neither of them had seemed to notice or care at his unexpected admittance. It was as if they had already known; which, in all honesty, they had. But it felt bloody _good_ to have it out in the open finally. He just hoped she never told him the same, even though he knew she felt that way. Otherwise, Sirius didn't think he would be able to withhold from making love to her. Even just thinking about hearing her say she wanted him had him itching to lift her into his arms and carry her all the way to bed.

"This is our room." He released her hand to open the door. "Hope you're not too disappointed."

She was not. _Definitely_ not. The room was frightfully large in comparison to the rest of the house. So large, in fact, that Antoinette was convinced that magic had been used to extend it. Done entirely in rich stone like the other rooms, the bedroom gave credence yet again to her old wizard bachelor theory. Sirius must not have even changed it when he had relocated here.

The bedroom was actually divided into two sections separated by a kind of archway extending majestically over the ceiling in patterned swirls. Sofas and armchairs and great windows and bookcases made up one section (a sort of inbuilt drawing room), while a gigantic four-poster took up quite most of the other section, with yet more sofas, armchairs, and windows thrown in for good measure as well as a walk-in closet and bathroom. One huge stone fireplace was planted directly in the centre of the two rooms. Tables and writing tables sat strategically at the corners or beside armchairs. She could well imagine an old wizard, still in his sleeping clothes, sitting down to pen letters there. Perhaps enjoying a cup of hot tea.

That reminded her. "Are you certain that you are all right?" she asked her husband, who had been busy levitating her clothes into the walk-in cupboard while Antoinette had perused the room.

"My throat's a little sore, but other than that . . ." he shrugged. "Nothing to get alarmed over."

"Good."

He smiled at her words. She smiled seeing him. It disappeared with his next sentence. "I have to leave now."

"Of course," she said, though she had not expected him to do so straight away. She had at least thought he would get a whole day's respite.

He crossed to her now, dark blue robes swishing in his wake. Took her by the shoulders. "I might see you tonight, if you stay up late."

She was _not_ going to miss another one of his kisses if she could help it. "What should I do until then?"

Brow lifting in amusement, he pretended to think. "You could try cooking something for me. I don't have a house elf, you know . . . well I do but he lives with my mother. _Is_ my mother's, actually. Slimy little snot, his only ambition is to get his head chopped off and put on the wall next to his mother's."

But Antoinette had not listened to any of that. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. What would Sirius say if she told him she didn't know how to cook, except for a measly soufflé? "Sirius, I . . ."

He noticed her hesitancy, her lowered eyes, her blush. A second brow went up to join the first. "Don't tell me you don't know how to cook."

"There was never any need," she defended haughtily. "I had three house elves. Besides, I know how to make soufflé."

He laughed. "I was only teasing you, Toni. I can always stop by The Leaky Cauldron and eat there."

Hearing that, Antoinette felt absolutely horrid. What sort of a wife was she? Of course she would learn how to cook for him, if only to debunk any vicious rumours that were sure to circulate in said pub if Sirius went to eat there; rumours about how she obviously wasn't a good wife if he went somewhere else for dinner. Oh, how she wished more than anything that she could have become employed before she'd met Sirius. At least then she wouldn't feel like such a nuisance, such a bother to him; so dependant on him and his money.

"Non, do not do that! I shall cook for you."

"Are you sure? I mean, it isn't a hardship for m —"

"I am quite sure," she interjected.

"All right, then. But you still can't spend your days just cooking. I mean there are books here, but still that's not —"

"I want to work." She was so excited. Sirius was one of those modern wizards, not stuck with ancient tradition. Surely he, unlike her parents, wouldn't object to her finding employment.

"What?"

She failed to note his suddenly tense tone.

"Perhaps at the Ministry, oui? You can put in a good . . ."

Antoinette continued to speak, but Sirius tuned her out._ Over my dead body!_ he thought vehemently. The thought of his beautiful-beyond-words Antoinette being ogled at, gawked at, leered at, _propositioned_ by those Ministry fools; propositioned by Death Eaters masquerading as employees . . . No! No, no and no! He became enraged just thinking about it. And they _would_ proposition her, there was absolutely no doubt. She was a prime catch. Incredibly beautiful, mannerly and, not to forget, pure-blooded. If Sirius were a Death Eater he'd snatch her up, married or not.

Plus, he didn't want Voldemort's snakey eyes turning her way. The Dark Lord knew about her now through Death Eater gossip, but if she made herself actually available to be approached, without him, Sirius, there to protect her . . .?

He would never ever forgive himself.

"No!" he shouted, interrupting her speech.

She blinked up at him, hair still skewed from their earlier bout of kissing.

"No. You're not going to find work."

Again, she blinked, then frowned. "What?"

"You heard me. You are to stay here. I'll not have my wife propositioned."

Her nose crinkled in confusion. "What on earth are you on about? Stop being so ridiculous, and —"

"Ridiculous?" Now he was furious with her. Couldn't she see he was only trying to protect her? How dare she throw that back in his face? "You're the one being ridiculous!"

"Let go of me now!"

Let go of her? He realised suddenly that he was gripping her by her upper arms, was actually on the verge of shaking her in order to make her listen. "Sorry." He released her, then winced upon registering the creases his fingers had made in the fabric. God, he hadn't meant to hurt her. He winced even more when she rubbed at those creases. He had possibly bruised her. What a complete bastard he was.

"Why?" she asked, wide eyes miserable.

Guilt _scorched_ him. "Why what?" he grunted.

"Why will you not permit me to work?"

"Because . . ."

Her eyes softened at his lost tone. "Because what?"

He raked his hair. "Because I don't want you to get hurt."

"How does that matter?"

"I know you aren't stupid, luv. You're a very beautiful woman, and the Ministry is full of very dangerous — ugly — men. I won't be there to protect you."

She seemed puzzled. "But I thought you worked at the Ministry?"

_Damn it!_ "I meant I won't _always_ be there. I work in The Department of Mysteries after all. We keep to ourselves most of the time."

She considered this. Even tipped her head very briefly to the side, as if trying to determine his real motives. "Very well, not the Ministry then. Somewhere else."

"Perhaps."

Her eyes narrowed at that, but she didn't make comment.

"I'm going now."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh."

Reaching forward almost without thought, he skimmed his finger over her jaw and lifted her chin. "I really am sorry, Toni." Then he bent down and touched his lips to hers.

Then, with an enormous crack that echoed rather ominously through the room, he disapparated.

Antoinette was left feeling very confused.

xxxxxx

_Thump. Knead. Cough._

Flour spattered into the air as Antoinette repeatedly punched the dough. Finding a cooking book in this house had been a nightmare — Sirius's uncle apparently only interested in magic and non-magic philosophical marvels — and when she finally did find something it had turned out to be a muggle one.

A pot roast had been her first experiment. That was now lying in the rubbish, charred, because she had thought to be clever and use her wand to cook it. Potatoes were her second attempt. That, thankfully, had worked out, but only because she had witnessed it done before. She had even remembered to use magic to peel them.

She should not have attempted bread.

What should have been a smooth ball of dough was instead bits of rough . . . bits. Hundreds of them.

"Oh well," she tried consoling herself, even as she felt her eyes grow hot. "It's only my first try."

Then she burst into tears. Inwardly horrified that she should display such indecorous behaviour — for, had she not been raised differently? — Antoinette quickly dried her eyes with the end of a napkin. The only excuse she could give herself, even though it was only that, was that of frustration. The result of trying to please her husband, trying to make him pleased with her.

It behoved her to admit it — and even though she was alone, brought a bright blush to her cheeks — but she wanted Linear there. Or any house elf would do. She was just selfish that way. As long as she didn't have to do anymore work. And she realised instantly that she _would_ have to do more work. She, Antoinette, would have to be the house elf. Cleaning, sweeping, gardening, washing, cooking . . . a house elf's job had never looked more strenuous, and she suddenly pitied Linear, Lime, and Cartone, the Le Creux family house elves.

The idea of doing all that was horrifying. She had never thought of herself as snobby, but now . . .

Logically, she realised that if she practised she _would_ get better — after all, she _had_ managed to make roast potatoes — but that day seemed eons away.

Antoinette had a sudden, horrid thought: _what would Sirius think? Especially when I turn the house into a pigsty by my lack of house-wifely knowledge. Or should that be house-elfy?_

Oh, it made her want to cry all over again!

"I'm so useless." With a flick of her wand the bench, table, and stove were clear of any mess. "Well," she amended, "perhaps not that useless."

She ate her potatoes mournfully.

Later, she sat in the drawing room, sipping a black coffee. That was two already in one day. Not a very promising start. She set down the little cup and lifted her eagle feather quill.

_Dearest Family,_

The quill paused. What could she say? Advice in duties of the home could only be given by those who were expert at said duties. But those experts were house elves, and Antoinette couldn't very well write to _them_.

Could she?

No, no. She could not. An absolutely preposterous idea, crossing the boundaries of slave and master in such a blatant fashion. The elves would likely faint at such lack of propriety on her part. They knew their place, and that was not to stand idly by reading letters from their former mistress. But . . . supposing her parents asked Linear for her? That could work.

As she penned the letter, she thought of her husband and his violently bizarre reaction to her interests in finding a job.

He was jealous.

It hadn't taken her long to figure that out, in fact just two seconds, which was why she had forgiven him straight away for his arrogant male outburst. Of whom he was jealous . . . Antoinette had come to the conclusion that it was every male under perhaps ninety-five.

He wanted her.

Had actually admitted to it.

Her mind still couldn't wrap itself around that. Likely she needed a few days to digest the fact, before openly embracing it. It was only recently, after all, that she had seen the nicer side of Sirius. The old Sirius would never have admitted to wanting her.

_. . . so you see my predicament. Sirius, being estranged from his mother, was not even permitted one elf of his own. I do not blame him in the least for this. I lay everything at his mother's feet, for I'm sure you have not forgotten what a vicious harridan she is. __I__ certainly haven't. I know it may seem demeaning asking a house elf for advice, but do recall that I want to make a good impression for my husband. Surely you do not want to embarrass me? Surely you do not wish for me to live in an unclean house? _

_Your loving daughter,_

_Antoinette._

That would certainly get their attention. Her parents could not abide slovenliness, and would be suitably horrified at the 'conditions' their daughter was forced to live in. Yes, they would listen to her. Along with exaggerating her circumstance, Antoinette had also lied a little. The Black's only owned one house elf after all.

She folded the letter up, stood . . . and realised with a sinking heart that Sirius did not own an owl.

"Incredible."

There was nothing for it. She would simply have to apparate to Diagon Alley and rent an International Post Owl.

_Or I can just floo home and speak to Maman and Papa in person . . ._

That seemed too daunting a prospect.

"Diagon Alley it is."

xxxxx

"No, a small one will do. It shall only have to fly to France, after all. That is not a terribly long way when one thinks about it."

"Of course not, dear," said the elderly witch absentmindedly, taking her quill in hand to jot down the information. "Perseus'll be perfect for you. That'll be two sickles, then. Would you like to purchase anything else? We've a nice new melting wax just come in yesterday. Guaranteed to keep your letter folded. All those mid-flight winds, you know, they tend to get a bit nasty if your owl's not careful. Wouldn't want your letter to end up in Timbuktu." The witch permitted herself a small chuckle.

"No, thank you." Really, the things wizards came up with these days. What was stick-grip parchment for if not to help keep letters tied to the birds?

The witch simply shrugged and shouted, "Perseus!" A tawny barn owl flew down to land on the wooden perch positioned on the counter. Antoinette tied her letter to the owl's leg. Perseus spread his large wings, leaped into the air, and flapped out of the great hole in the shop's ceiling.

Twenty minutes later found her wandering Diagon Alley. A feeling of morbidness overwhelmed her. Most shops were closed — scared, perhaps, of the Dark Lord's lidless gaze turning their way. Already she had bypassed the Quidditch store, thought briefly of buying something for Sirius, before dismissing the idea. She knew he liked Quidditch. What she didn't know was if he had the items she'd thought to purchase. It turned out she needn't have bothered even thinking of buying anything, as the store had a large CLOSED sign charmed stuck to its display window.

It was as she past Gladrags that she bumped into someone walking out, or rather, some _thing_.

A stroller.

A baby wailed as a shrill voice intruded. "Now look what you've done, you stupid woman!"

A pale-haired witch dashed around the stroller and picked up the wailing baby.

Antoinette simply stared. She had done nothing but walk past the shop. The other woman was the one who'd rammed the stroller into her.

"Are you all right, Drakey?" The woman cooed to the baby. "Mummy's not going to let her hurt you again."

_Drakey?_

A conversation from two weeks past drifted through Antoinette's thoughts.

"_And this is my niece, Narcissa. Beautiful, isn't she. Not quite as stunning as you, but then I don't imagine many people are . . . Except my traitor child of course. Have a biscuit, Antoinette."_

"_No thank you, Madame, I am quite —"_

"_Don't be stupid, child! Tom serves a good plate."_

_Antoinette reached for a biscuit._

"_And this is her son, Draco," said Mrs Black, gesturing to the picture in the album. "And her husband, Lucius. Prime pureblood. He's a Death Eater, you know," she added, proudly. _

_Antoinette fought not to choke as she swallowed the biscuit. _

Narcissa. That explained the woman's rudeness. Antoinette had been very relieved when neither she nor her husband had turned up at the wedding.

Not wanting to linger any more than was necessary, Antoinette sidestepped the stroller and continued walking.

Narcissa glared at her. "How dare you!"

_How dare I?_ Antoinette turned coolly, raised a haughty brow. "I assure you, Mrs Malfoy, the accident was no fault of mine."

"I hope you aren't implying it was _my_ — you're French!"

"I do have a slight accent."

"That's not what I meant. You're Antoinette!"

Antoinette merely raised her brow higher. "I know that."

Narcissa flushed, looked down. "Yes, Auntie Black told us all about you." Her expression indicated a kind of sneering pleasure. "French. Pureblood. How dreadful for you to be stuck with Sirius. But delightful for us. Of course you must come to dinner one of these days."

That offer was so incongruous to the woman's previous behaviour, that Antoinette merely continued staring.

This unsettled Narcissa, because she flushed once more. "I must apologise to you about the, er, accident. If I'd known it was you, of course I would never have . . ." she frowned, stopped, a calculating gleam in her eye. "But, I thought you were honeymooning with Sirius at the moment?"

Not once did Antoinette forget that Narcissa's husband, and possibly Narcissa herself, were Death Eaters. She would never betray Sirius to them, whether intentionally or not. "We still are," she lied. "I left a few of my things at the Leaky Cauldron. Sirius was kind enough to accompany me here to retrieve them."

"And where is —" sneer "— dear, Sirius?"

"That, Madame, is none of your business."

Narcissa flushed for the third time. For some bizarre reason that Antoinette could not construe, the woman was intimidated by her. "Of course it isn't. Well then, I must be off." She placed the sleeping Draco back in his stroller. "Have a good day, cousin. I'll owl you about that dinner."

Antoinette watched her go, pushing through the crowd. Observed how Narcissa did not wait for people to move out of the way. Did not apologise when she ran over toes and knocked down the pile of books in front of Flourish and Blotts.

_Dreadful woman!_

The difference between Narcissa and Sirius was marked. Now that Antoinette had met a real Death Eater (or at least the wife of a real Death Eater), she could not perceive just why she'd thought Sirius must be one. Her husband was gentleness personified compared to this witch.

xxxxx

That night Antoinette sat curled in a lounge chair waiting for her husband. She had debated about whether to tell Sirius of her accidental meeting with his cousin, and at last — after a few minutes of intense, internal arguing — decided against it. He might not be pleased and Antoinette did not want to end up being responsible for starting yet another argument.

The clock above the bookshelves ticked to a slow eleven fifty-six. Sirius had not been joking at how late he would be arriving.

And he _still_ hadn't shown up yet.

She had to amend her thought a second later when the fireplace burst into a fusion of green flames and a long muscular body trod out, patting at the soot on his clothing. Those sensuous dark grey eyes looked up at that exact moment, saw her, and blinked.

"What are you still doing up?"

"You told me to wait for you, non?"

"I just thought you would've have been in bed by now." He shrugged off his leather jacket and threw it over an armchair. A white singlet shirt melded the length of his chest, muscles outlined beneath the fabric. Those gorgeous muscles bunched as he bent to untie his bootlaces.

Her breath caught on a hitch. "And miss my kiss?"

He froze, peeked up at her through his overhanging hair, and grinned. "So that's why you waited." He didn't look at all displeased with the information.

Straightening, eyes hooded and, of course, gorgeous, he stalked towards her with strides lazy yet full of purpose. He knew what he wanted and he was going to get it. Antoinette allowed herself to feel that building tension, that swiftness of caught breath. When he finally stopped to loom over her she was feeling quite out of her mind, and so breathless with thinking over what was about to happen that she was almost choking.

He extended a hand, offering, waiting. Eyes full of emotion. Of fire.

She took it. Fingers curling over hers, he helped her to stand.

"Is this all right?" he asked, voice incredibly low.

"Yes," was all she had time to whisper, before his head tilted, before his eyes closed, before he bent down.

Ever so gently touched his lips to hers.

Once, twice, thrice, he skimmed, then hardened. Boldly, she thrust her tongue into his mouth. Her husband reacted as she'd thought he would. He tensed, extracted his lips. Before he had a chance to pull away completely, she wound her arms about his neck.

He covered her hands with his, made to draw them down. She held on.

He sighed, stared at her with eyes full of suspicion, full of warning. "Toni. Don't do this."

"I'm not permitted to caress you?"

A sound very much like pain erupted from his mouth, before he smashed his lips into hers. Strong arms encircled her back, pulling her towards him. Their bodies met and this time it was she who cried out. The achingly wonderful feel of him, hard and gloriously masculine, against her softness . . . she wanted more.

Antoinette was delighted. It must have been that word, _caress,_ that had so affected him.

It occurred to her now that she could do something; fulfil a fantasy she'd been dreaming about ever since the very first time she had seen him. Her hands — presently caressing the hair at the base of his neck — moved lower down his back, kneaded the strong muscles in his shoulder. Lingered at his narrow waist . . . She felt him tense, as if he knew just what she wanted to do, then —

His lips tore from hers. "_God!_" he gasped. "Toni, you —"

"Shhh." She kissed him again as her hands continued to knead, to mold, to rub the most luscious pieces of muscle that were ever created. Her eyes widened in surprise as she discovered that, the more she kneaded and molded and rubbed, the tauter the twin globes became.

Once more, Sirius tore away from her. But this time he grabbed her hands and drew them, forcefully, to her sides. "No more."

His tone brooked no argument.

Her eyes stared into his then, deliberately, she let them drop to the hard bulge below his waist. They widened. He couldn't possible be _that_ huge, could he? It must just be the effect of the strange, blue material which, she'd felt, had been course and deliciously abrasive against her palms.

She heard him swear softly, longingly, in response to her staring. That was enough affirmation for her. She leaned into — "Ouch!"

"That's what you get for not listening," he grunted.

She blinked up at him, unable to believe that he had actually pulled her hair. Hard.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, avoiding her gaze. Then he reached up, threaded his fingers through her hair, and began massaging gently.

She closed her eyes. Moaned.

Sirius jumped away as if scalded. "I need a shower," he rasped.

Then, just as if he had apparated, he was gone.

Again, Antoinette was left blinking.

_Stupid man!_ she thought, frustrated. Where he got his willpower from she'd like to know. He should have seduced her by now. Evidently, the thought of freedom from marriage was more appealing to him at this point in time than getting naked with his wife.

xxxxx

Sirius banged his head against the tiled shower wall.

_Stupid! Stupid!_

He had kissed her earlier that day, admitted to wanting her, because that sense of urgency, that urgency of life, had overwhelmed him. _He_ had almost died, and if it weren't for his wife's quick thinking — he reminded himself to thank her properly for that — he would have. Choking to death was definitely _not_ how he wanted to go.

Gideon and Fabian _had_ died . . . He always felt melancholy after the death of an Order member. Especially if that Order member had been one of his friends.

When he and Antoinette had kissed tonight he had been determined not to prolong it anymore than he had to. He had tried resorting to his usual method of kissing her hard until she lost all thought, then retreating to safety.

It hadn't happened that way.

When he'd felt her tongue enter his mouth, felt her hands on his rump — he still couldn't believe she'd had the gall to do that. He'd had to fight _extremely_ hard with the baser part of himself; the part that insisted to let her keep going and see where they both ended up — _he_ was the one who had lost all thought. He'd only managed to pull away at the reminder of the annulment, and that if he took her then, he wouldn't get it.

It was getting _much_ harder to fight her allure now. He wanted her so much he ached constantly. He could hardly walk properly anymore because of his constant erection. He thought of her all the time — to the point where even his spying was affected. He'd almost missed a vital piece of information a few hours ago because he'd been too busy fantasising about laying his wife down in their bed and exploring her — and all she had to offer — until his lust was finally sated; until he could think with all cognitive functions once more.

Her birthday was approaching, according to her parents. Five days from now. He should do something for her. They _were_ still on their honeymoon after all. Theoretically.

_But how do you thank someone for saving your life?_

xxxxx

A/N: This chapter was going to be longer, in fact I'd even written more for it, but there's just too much stuff happening. Again.

Next chapter should hopefully be out soon because it's already part done.

Happy Reading.


	12. Of Laughter, Of Tears, Of Fears

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed. So sorry for the wait.

And what did everyone think of _Deathly Hallows_? What a shocker! I never would have expected half the things I read. But I enjoyed it, as I did all the books. I just can't believe it's all finally finished. It took me a whole three days to get over the shock. And I'm still reeling.

**WARNING :** This chapter is most definitely, definitely, _definitely_ rated M!

Hope you enjoy.

**Chapter Eleven: Of Laughter, Of Tears, Of Fears**

xxxxx

When Antoinette awoke the next morning, Sirius was gone. The only sign of his having being there a few hairs scattered on the pillow next to hers as well as his distinctive scent. She gave into the urge to bury her face in it and, _almost_, screamed in frustration. All she did was merely moan.

_Stubborn wizard!_

Eventually, a divine smell led her down to the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting. Along with the note:

_Toni,_

_Don't expect me until dinner. You could _try_ to make it I suppose, but I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself._

_Regards,_

_Sirius._

That absolute cur! She burned the note with great pleasure (though she could not keep back a small smile at his teasing, relieved that last night's debacle hadn't so totally ruined their current standing) then set about eating the sausages, eggs, and . . ._ Mon Dieu, what in the world is that?_ She peered closer at it. As she did so she noticed yet another note tucked under the gilded plate of . . . things.

_Toni,_

_I've made you kippers. And yes, they're a type of fish. I don't yet know your sensibilities well enough, but if you can eat Frogs' Legs you can certainly eat fish. They're quite delicious, if I do say so myself. Try them._

_Sirius._

Antoinette raised her head, contemplative. How well he knew her. And how mocking of him to cook breakfast for her, when he knew she didn't know how. It occurred to her that he could have cooked it simply because he was hungry himself. She felt guilt now. She clenched her fists. Was she always going to have so many fluctuating emotions because of this wizard? Couldn't she just hate him and be done with it! Her eyes immediately watered at the thought. _Hate Sirius?_ It was easier to stop breathing.

Wiping her eyes — again chiding herself for her momentary lapse of composure — she plucked a little fish from its pile and nibbled on it.

She finished the whole plate ten minutes later.

Regardless of what an absolute stubborn-head Sirius was being, she could not help but be in awe of his hard-headedness. When he didn't want to do something, he _really_ didn't want to do something. She suddenly felt quite proud of him. If any Death Eater were ever to capture him, they would not get an ounce of secret out of him. She was certain of it. Even with Veritaserum, which could be blocked.

But that stubbornness was now going to be her undoing.

She had tried an ultimatum — that had failed spectacularly because, even though he was affected by her presence, he was stubborn enough, _Sirius_ enough, to ignore it, which gave her no end of frustration. And made her also, a little bit, feel almost slighted, as though she wasn't desirable enough for him. Which was stupid, because she knew very well that she was.

She had tried to be provocative — that had not worked, and also made her feel very foolish.

She had tried to provoke his lust — that had merely scared him. Yes, he had been highly aroused, but perhaps, because of that very fact, he had been frightened of her. _Or of himself?_ Now there was a thought. Had he been scared because of his potential lack of control? Had he been afraid that he _would_ loose control, and give into his desire to make love to her?

She became very excited. If that were the case, then all she had to do was push him just that little bit further.

xxxxxxx

Dinner arrived along with her parents' owl, but still no Sirius graced the table fit for five. Trying not the be irritated, she untied the note — embossed in silver ink with the Le Creux crest taking up half the centre — and began reading:

_Dearest Toni,_

_I am happy to hear that you are well. As to your predicament, it puzzles me. Surely Walburga would think to lend you one. But as you have no house elf, we will give you one of ours for the nonce. Even though you are no longer her mistress, we have instructed Linear to obey your every command . . ._

Just as Antoinette finished reading the passage, a small pop sounded throughout the kitchen.

There, standing before her, was Linear. White tea-towel dress, mittens, and all.

"Oh dear." How ever could she explain to Sirius?

_. . . And Happy Birthday in advance, mon petite! Unfortunately your present was too large to be carried by a mere owl, so we a shipping it via the two Ministries. The British Ministry shall then send it through to your Floo (you never did tell us why you are home so early from your honeymoon) and we attain hope that the British Ministry is not as incompetent as the French one, or your present will be lost._

_On another, less important, note Aunt Helena has acquired a touch of the dragon pox, nothing serious, but she complains incessantly . . . _

Antoinette completely forgot about reading the rest of the letter. Her birthday was coming up. How could she have forgotten? Admittedly eighteen wasn't a very special birthday in terms of how birthdays went, but to be so distracted by her new husband as to forget . . .?

"Is Mistress Black needing anything?"

The high-pitched voice made her look down. "Yes, Linear. Make dinner. As extravagant as you can with what food is available."

xxxxx

He was so very quiet this time that Antoinette did not hear him enter the room. A muted thump against the corner of the bed table gave him away. That, and the subsequent cursing. Though she could not make out what was being said, the hissing was loud enough to wake her fully. She blinked at the darkness. Dawn had not yet risen, though she felt as if it might at any moment.

"You're back."

The cursing ceased immediately. A long pause, then: "Yeah. I know I said I'd be back by dinner but something came up. I'm sorry I woke you."

Antoinette tried, but could not stop the delicious shudder upon hearing his low, husky voice. She still found it disconcerting, as well as embarrassing, that he could so affect her without even trying. "I was not asleep," she lied.

"Then I'm sorry I made you wait up for me," he shot back without pause.

She sighed.

The bed dipped briefly, lowly ― Antoinette clutched at the side to keep from rolling onto him — before he settled upon it with a soft groan. Heat literally seeped from his body, leading her to believe that he was without clothes once more. She was too shy to dare confirm her thoughts. But the thought that he was naked again sent a whiz straight to her stomach and beyond. That he could affect her without so much as doing anything was mortifying, but familiar. Her senses had become used to how he played them; so much so that she was now strangely comfortable with the feeling of spontaneous arousal.

She heard him sigh, then shuffle, turn onto his side. "Aren't you going to face me?"

Her heart thumped an unsteady tattoo against her ribcage. "Why should I?"

He laughed softly, which was so surprising, that she blinked. "So I can talk to you properly, face to face. I have to ask you about that delicious dinner downstairs. Five course meal. You've outdone yourself. How the hell you managed it, I'll never know, but I have to applaud you."

"I had help," she said weakly. Linear had gone a little overboard, it was true. Late last night, while reading the Daily Prophet, she had chosen not to tell Sirius about the elf, as she was sure that he would all but approve. Linear had been ordered to stay out of Sirius's sight. It was selfish of her, she had to admit, but she still felt a kind of guilty pleasure in keeping such a secret right under her husband's nose. He would _never_ guess that a house elf had done all the work, and she would _never_ tell him.

"I'm sure Uncle Alphard's old muggle cook books were a huge help." The sarcasm in his voice was hard to miss.

"They were at that," she said haughtily.

He laughed again and, again, the sound went straight through her body like an electric jolt. "Recognise teasing when you hear it, Antoinette. Now, I ask again, aren't you going to face me?"

"And I ask you again: why should I? You can hardly see me in this gloom as it is."

He waited a long time to answer, and the silence was anticipatory. "I can see you perfectly well. You look desirable, as always. And have you forgotten that I owe you a kiss? I didn't give you one last night."

Antoinette blinked again. She _had_ forgotten ― which was very unusual, considering she had spent most of the night thinking about him, what he was up to, and bemoaning the loss of her daily pleasure. But why was _he_ so eagre to remind her? She promptly chided herself for that ungrateful thought. She had known, instinctively, long before this, that her husband was honourable. Of course he would abide by his promise. And he had told her he wanted her . . . "Oh. What I mean is, yes, I had forgotten."

"Turn over."

Her stomach dipped once more at his unexpected demand and, much lower, that familiar tingling ache built to an alarming degree. A moan collected in her throat, and she instantly squelched it. Heat flooded into her cheeks. What was wrong with her this morning? Lack of proper sleep must have been affecting her thinking ― no, not her thinking; the susceptibility of her senses, which appeared to her to be more vulnerable than they ever had before.

She turned over.

"There's my girl," he smiled down at her.

Instantly, she remembered that they had only ever been in this position once; the first night of their honeymoon: she, lying flat on her back, he hovering almost, but not quite, over her, hair falling over to hang on either side of his face in a tumult of glorious black waves. The only difference tonight was that he seemed, unbelievably, less stiff. Almost comfortable. Relaxed. As if the world was once more to his liking. His beautiful grey eyes, she could see, were crinkled in bemusement.

"What is it?"

"You," was all the information he offered.

"And what have I done to amuse you so?"

His gaze fell to her lips. "You?" he murmured. "Nothing. You've done nothing." Then rose to stare into hers. "Close your eyes."

The whisper sent her heart palpitating in delicious expectation. She followed his command and closed them.

Long seconds past. Incredibly, they weren't awkward. There was just a heavy feeling of weightlessness, of waiting for something to happen. In itself, this waiting was unbelievably erotic. To her at least. She had no idea why it was so, because her husband had never willingly, consciously, tried to eroticise any part of their relationship before. It was wishful thinking, that's what it was, but Antoinette wasn't in the least surprised by that. She'd thought wishfully ever since she had first set eyes on Sirius Black. There was nothing to it. It couldn't be helped, almost, like Antoinette couldn't help but be a witch.

She expected to feel the pressure of his lips any second now, and she did, but not on her mouth. A gentle tickling began at the base of her lashes, caused in part by the incredibly soft brush of his mouth against the feathery tips, and in another by the breath that misted ever so gently out of said mouth.

She giggled.

"What?" he asked, causing another avalanche of ticklish sensitivity to strike the base of her eyelids.

"You're tickling me."

He said nothing, merely kissed her left eyelid, then her right. Then the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her jaw ― by this time Antoinette was holding her breath ― and along. Down, down her neck. Hard, yet soft. Wet, yet dry. His breath was moist along her neck, but his mouth was dry as it skimmed her pulse. Suddenly his tongue shot out, laved, quick as lighting. She choked on a gasp. Then panted. She couldn't seem to help herself. Why was he doing . . .? Her eyes opened wide. Had she finally achieved it? Was he finally giving up fighting? Had she seduced him? Or was he trying to seduce her? Oh, she didn't care! She just wanted him never to stop.

Somehow, her hands had found purchase on his broad shoulders, fingers digging in, massaging the tense muscles so tightly that she felt certain she had bruised him. What in the world was wrong with her? He hadn't even kissed her yet, hadn't even touched her yet but for his lips upon her skin.

She tugged at his shoulders, wanting, more than anything in the world, to be able to feel his weight on top of her.

He wasn't budging.

A frustrated little noise escaped her mouth.

Sirius stopped kissing her neck, and laughed gently. Unsteadily. "You get mindless too quickly, love."

Did she? Oh, what did it matter! She tried tugging again, but he was immovable. "Si-ri-_us_," she hissed, teeth gritted.

She felt the shaking of his body beneath her hands as he struggled not to laugh.

"Urrgh!" she said.

He burst out laughing at that, rolled over onto his back. Away from her. Her hands fell, empty, by her side. Disbelieving, she started at him.

"What's funny?"

"You have no clue ―" he chuckled "― just how flattering you are to my ego."

Antoinette had no idea what he was talking about. "What do you mean?"

He propped himself onto an elbow, grinned. "I'd like to tell you, but I'm going to embarrass you if I do. We aren't that comfortable enough with each other yet."

_Meaning he wants us to be?_ She was still slightly dazed from his earlier grin. How different his attitude was this morning. "Just tell me."

He glanced at her from under half-lids. For the first time she realised that dawn had finally arrived, and with it, its confirmation of her earlier musings. Sirius _was_ naked. Determined not to let it distract her, she concentrated on his face, which may have been a bad idea, gorgeous as it was. But at least her eyes weren't wandering anywhere potentially embarrassing. _Thank God for the sheet!_

It still didn't help, though. Now she had to force her eyes not to travel down that chest she'd been so obsessed with the last few nights.

"All right, then," he said, "if you want the truth: You loose all sense of yourself when I kiss you. You don't act at all like yourself."

"How do you mean?" she asked, blushing. _Idiot, you did want him to tell you._

"You're demanding, for one. You're never like that when I talk with you. You're always so passive. It's almost a welcome change."

"Almost?"

He looked straight at her. "Yes. Almost." He laughed. "You're not very good for my piece of mind." He winced visibly. "Sorry, that was tactless wasn't it?"

Antoinette had been about to say just that. "Yes, it was."

"What I meant was . . . I can never think properly when I'm around you." She stared, amazed. He looked down, cleared his throat. Said nonchalantly, "You're also very passionate."

"That's because . . ."

He grinned boyishly at her. "What?"

'_What?' he asks._ Wanting him to seduce her, to seduce him, was one of her top most priorities at the moment. She just couldn't seem to help herself anymore. Being around him made her hot, tingling, aware, and completely overtook all rationale thought. She had to get him out of her system soon or she would burst! She was reminded suddenly that Sirius was more prone to response if she hinted at something provocative. If she pushed him just that one step further. What would he do if she came right out and said it? Would he be surprised? He had, after all, admitted it to her.

Heart thumping excitedly, she peeked up at him — and had to calmly clench her fists into the bed covers. _Mon Dieu!_ How delicious he looked, how rumpled, how suddenly . . . _there_. Available.

His black hair fell messily about his face, eyes sensuous through the locks, lips lush and inviting.

God must have put him on earth just to torment her.

And his scent, oh _Dieu_ his scent! Just smelling that scent aroused her. Being this near him aroused her. She welcomed it; welcomed with open arms the most decadent feeling she had ever felt. A feeling, Antoinette instinctively knew, that would increase a thousand-fold if he would only make love to her. If he would only approach her and give her that sweet, sweet pleasure.

He frowned now, in confusion. She was taking too long to answer.

"What is it?" he asked, joking. "Cat got your — ?"

"Je te veux."

He sobered immediately. Tensed. His gaze ― which had become incredibly wide upon hearing her confession ― turned even more smouldering, and dropped to her lips. Anticipation built. Antoinette twisted her hands into the sheets to keep from spreading them over his luscious torso and ruining the moment. When his voice finally came — strained and gritted — she jumped. "Come here."

She went quickly, shuffling over until her body rested against his. They both gasped at the contact. So _hot_. He was so hot! "Now what?" This time, she was the one lying almost on top of him.

He stared at her lips, making them throb. "Open your mouth for me."

_Erotic._ That was what his words sounded like. That was what his voice felt like. And Antoinette could not help herself: she whimpered.

He stared at her. Repeated, "Open your mouth for me."

She did, and immediately felt, saw, his hand reach about her neck, thread into her hair, and bring her down to meet his lips.

At once her body came alive. Every one of her nerve endings tingled. His tongue swept past her teeth, past her own tongue, and delved deeply. Lapped. The moan collected in her throat, exploded, and she could not stop it, even had she tried. It was all happening so fast.

_This is it, this is it!_ She knew it. It had to be it . . .

Sirius could not stop his actions. It was as if his brain had been temporarily disconnected from his limbs.

"I want you," she had said. And, as he had known would happen if he were ever to hear those words from her lips, he lost all sense of mind. He now existed purely on instinct; purely on ingrained reaction; purely on experience. He could remember nothing of every day life, of his promise to not bed her, of the Order. Voldemort and all problems associated remained a distant memory, one that, if asked to recall at this moment, he would not be able to; not even to save his life.

Only one thing mattered: pleasure. _Her_ pleasure, and _his_ pleasure; their mutual enjoyment of each other.

He continued kissing her; drawn out kisses, long kisses, tongues sloppy and wet and the feeling a thousand times better than he had ever felt in his life. He released her lips, allowed her to take a breath — which she did, gasping.

"_Sirius, Sirius, Sirius," _she could not stop breathing. Could not stop the weak shaking of her head. "Oh, _please_ . . ."

"What?" he asked and, for the first time ever, cupped her breasts.

She shrieked and jerked, bucking into him, thigh brushing his erection.

He drew a hissing breath, mentally shook his head of any pleasurable cobwebs. He needed to concentrate on his task, not leap like an animal at her. He had dreamed of this moment. Had allowed himself to fantasise, but never to believe. Never to believe that he could be here, now, doing this to her.

_Take it slowly,_ a voice cautioned.

He kneaded the globes through her silk nightgown. She cried out. He pinched her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, the buds already hard and peaked without his having to do anything. He looked up from his task long enough to see that she was biting her knuckle, the pleasure almost too intense for her. He couldn't wait to touch her skin. But first . . .

"Touch me."

English had deserted her. "Wha —? _What? I can't think, I can't think. What did you say?__Sirius_."

He forced himself to straddle her knees, to remove his hands from her deliciously soft femininity, gently took her own, and brought them to his chest. He spoke now in her own tongue. "Touch me."

Her eyes lit with a thousand understandings. "I shall not last if I do this to you."

"You won't last either way," he growled. "Just touch me, Antoinette. I can't stand it anymore."

With a hoarse moan, she did so. Ran her palms down his chest, stroked his chest, fingers briefly playing with his nipples. Up and over his shoulders they went, kneading, stroking, playing with his hair, down his back, down, down — he knew what she was going to do, and this time he waited for it, welcomed it. And when the touch came they both moaned. It gave him no end of delight that she was receiving pleasure, obtaining pleasure, just by touching him.

While she was busy down there, he set to work on the buttons of her nightgown. He divested it swiftly. He had to clench his fists, mentally ground himself, not to fall on her, not to thrust into her. The morning light was brighter now, much brighter, and it painted her in twinkling gold. He could clearly see the vivid blush that graced her cheeks, neck, and chest.

Everything. The light showed him everything. All the things he had been longing to see, that he had imagined revealing, exploring, in the dark hours before daylight when he could not sleep.

And now he had them. And they were his.

She was already covered with a fine layer of sweat, and it gave her an altogether glowing sheen, making her seem like some otherworldly creature. Fairy, yes, he had always likened her to a fairy. Her breasts were pink-tipped, and not too large, but they were perfectly shaped.

He could not resist cupping them again. And this time there was no nightgown to take from the pleasure. Moist silken skin filled his palms. It would soon fill his mouth.

_But not yet,_ said the voice again. _You don't want to frighten her._

He ignored it.

Bent his head, set his lips on her left bud, and lapped. Stroked. Suckled.

She screamed and twisted, hands fisting in his hair, and tugging — _not_ gently.

He couldn't help it. He fell onto her with a grunt.

He thanked Merlin he was still straddling her, otherwise he would have fallen between her outspread legs. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to stop himself then, and she deserved better for her first time than some animalistic mating. Although that scenario decidedly attracted him, she was not ready for it yet.

But his arousal was now lying, innocently, along her soft stomach, and he almost _died_ with the strength it took him not to press into her.

She felt it too. Her eyes widened.

He tried to shift onto his knees with as little movement as he could, but her eyes became, if possible, even wider and she clutched at his shoulders. "_Non, non_, don't move. Please don't move, I love your weight."

He shivered. "I love my weight too. I love pinning you down. But I _have_ to move, darling. I haven't finished exploring."

A sort of meowing cry left her throat then. "How could you not have? I can't stand it anymore, Sirius. Make love to me!"

"I _can't_." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. And it took him at least ten seconds to realise just why he had said them. An ice-cube dropped into his stomach.

_Merlin_, how could he have forgotten, even for a moment, about the annulment?

He sat up, again straddling her knees, his erection pointing straight up, throbbing, but he ignored it in favour of looking at her, because this was the last chance he would get to do so.

"What is it?" she asked. "What did you mean by that?"

He stared at her for a moment longer, memorising exactly how she looked in this moment. Hair wild, long, askew, some locks tumbling passed her shoulders, others spread by his own hands to lie across the pillows beneath her lovely head. Her clear sapphire eyes — exactly the colour of the necklace he had purchased for her birthday — were wide, confused, and not all together with him, still caught in the pleasure.

His gaze travelled down now, mapping, memorising her still heaving breasts, her unbelievably small waist, the golden curls that lay below it, and the sheen of moisture that could be found there — that told him exactly what he was doing to her. Exactly what sitting across her knees like this was doing to her.

"I can't make love to you, Antoinette."

She did not understand, was still too caught up in it all. She tried tugging again at his shoulders. "_Please_."

The word was filled with such _longing_.

In that instant he understood that she felt now like she would die without him. If he didn't pleasure her, she would die. It was as simple as that. She would never forgive him if he left her now. And, despite the fact that he was plotting their annulment, planning their estrangement, he did not want her hate. He really didn't think he could stand it.

He reached out, letting his fingers curl into her secret place, finding the wetness there, the erectile bud. A few strokes was all it took and then she was soaring, screaming, digging her fingers into his thighs.

And Sirius had never seen a more beautiful sight, than his wife in the forgetfulness of ecstasy. He could only imagine how delicious, how satisfying, she would feel right now if his shaft were to sink into her.

She fainted long before her contractions faded.

Sirius didn't waist any time. He whipped off the covers and strode from the bed and into the bathroom, hoping desperately that a cold shower would fix his problem.

xxxxxxx

They had taken a step into the dangerous.

Sirius wasn't sure just how he could convince her to take a step back, to forget last night and go on as they had before.

He didn't think he could.

The bowl of cornflakes had long turned soggy, and he let his spoon fall back into the milk with a dull _clunk_. Eating now turned his stomach. Eating soggy, stale cornflakes that he'd found in the dark corner of the pantry — no doubt sitting there since before Alphard had passed away — threatened to bring up the five course meal he'd eaten early that morning. The food his wife had cooked.

He snorted. Not that he believed that. It was more likely that she'd hired someone, or else somehow attained a house elf to cook it for her. He suspected Kreacher. After all Antoinette was Kreacher's mistress now, but that implied that she'd been in contact with Sirius's mother . . .

His palm clenched over the spoon, the curved ends digging into his flesh. The pain brought a different kind of relief. It allowed him to retain at least some of his control. The thought of his mother turned his stomach. The thought of Antoinette in cahoots with her, visiting her . . . well, he didn't exactly know what to feel. Betrayal, among other things.

And he knew he was being absolutely ridiculous.

But she had not done it herself, Sirius knew that much. She was too much of a . . . pureblood to. Not that that was a bad thing, but she could never have learned how to cook in such a short amount of time. It had taken _him_ at least five visits to Lily's kitchen before he could master the spell to fry a perfect sausage. In mid-air.

A five course meal required at least, he was sure, two months of study. Not counting mastering the spell for washing the leftover dishes, either.

It had to have been a house elf. Definitely a house elf. The thought of Kreacher in his house, touching his food, brought forth a shudder that wracked his tall frame. But he could not help but feel pleased, proud even, that the little snot had listened to Antoinette. And apparently with full adoration, if he had, indeed, made a five course meal. Kreacher had never made _him_ a five course meal.

Standing up, he sidled to the sink and poured in the cornflakes, grimacing as the droplets of milk spattered on the arm of his sleeve. The kettle stood waiting, ready to be boiled, but yesterday's debacle was still fresh in his mind, and he thought he could stomach drinking tea even less than eating cornflakes right now.

But, if his wife wanted some . . .

With a wave of his wand the water in the kettle boiled. Another wave and a cup and tea bag materialised beside the kettle.

He smelled her before he saw her.

That exotic flowery scent of hers, that clung to her skin, that had intertwined with their play last night. That scent had been strongest, down there, in her secret place . . . He closed his eyes in disbelief. He was _not_ supposed to be thinking about that!

They would talk about it, yes, that was inevitable. But that didn't mean he had to think about it.

"Tea?" he asked, still without having turned around.

"Please."

'_Please don't move, I love your weight.'_

He nearly broke the cup he jerked so much at the images that accompanied the thought of those huskily whispered words.

"Milk?" _Steady on, old boy. Chin up, there's the lad. You can do it._

"No, thank you."

He. Would. Get. A. Grip. He had to.

"Biscuits?" Now he was grasping at straws. He knew she didn't eat biscuits, just as he'd known she didn't drink milk with her tea.

"No, thank you."

He turned around and handed her the cup. She took it, eyes not meeting his own.

"We need to talk," said Sirius.

Her blush was very evident, and he was at once reminded of the way her whole body had turned pink last night . . . The little Sirius in his head slapped himself.

"Yes."

They sat on opposite sides of the table, Sirius wishing that he had made himself a cup of tea because then he would have something to concentrate on. As it was, Antoinette was not taking her eyes off the cup in her hand.

"I know last night, whatever it was, was not a mistake."

He looked straight up at her. "_Not_ a mistake?" Surely he hadn't heard right. Surely she couldn't be so naïve as to think that they would repeat any of what had happened last night?

That gold-pale hair of hers was loose this morning, and it draped to frame her face as she bent her head even more. "Yes."

"At least look at me when you talk to me, Toni!"

She did.

He realised his mistake at once. Her wide, blue eyes were glistening. He felt like an arse. And now certain Antoinette herself was not aware of her condition, otherwise he didn't think she'd have obeyed him so fast.

_Merlin's Beard . . ._ he was never going to win with her if, simply by glimpsing a sheen of unshed tears, was enough to pile on the guilt. He had to face the horrible truth. She held him in the palm of her hand without even knowing. He hoped she never found out.

"Now," he began, leaning his forearms onto the table, "would you mind explaining what you meant? What did you mean by 'it was not a mistake'?"

Miserable eyes stared at him, but did not offer any more information. Well, if she wouldn't say anything, than he would. He had to set her straight. He had to make her see . . .

"_Nothing_ can happen between us, Toni. I thought we agreed on that. I accept that I must kiss you every night, and sleep by your side, but I'm not doing anything else. You can't . . . you're not allowed to respond to me that way. You can't just go telling me that you ―" He cursed, raked his hair. Those eyes of hers were widening now. "I'm going to tell you something now, in hopes that you'll lay off: my control is already shaky where you're concerned, and we both know it. Telling me that you w —"

He looked down. Breathed. "I want you as well, you know I do, I fully admit it but I-I . . ." He drew a deep breath, stared down at the table. "I don't love you. You don't love me. We both want out of this marriage. Therefore, it stands to reason, that it would stupid of us to consummate it. We both have things we have to do; different lives we have to lead. You have no place in mine, and I'm convinced I have no place in yours. We're just too different, Toni."

Silence.

When she finally spoke Sirius started so much his foot hit the leg of the table. "Last night," she began, fingers playing with the rim of her cup, "you initiated everything. You approached me, you kissed me, you _continued_ to kiss me."

Sirius swallowed. He had not forgotten that. "I don't deny it."

"Yet you can sit there and tell me it was all _my_ fault?"

"Perhaps I didn't word the speech as well as I _could_ have . . ."

"Speech?"

He winced.

She nodded, slowly, contemplatively. "I see now. You have been practising."

Sirius found he could not say anything to that.

Antoinette straightened her back, breathed deep, and stood, cup in hand. "You can say all you like, husband, but I know that you must care for me. What I don't understand is how you can simply dismiss that so easily? Do you not care — do you not _realise_ — that circumstances have a way of changing?"

He stared at her. "Of course I care for you, you're my _wife_."

"A convenient excuse, I think."

Then she calmly walked to the sink, placed the cup inside it, then walked back out of the room, her gait slow and steady and . . . _Antoinetteishly Aristocratic_.

Sirius wasn't stupid. He knew what she had been getting at, but it was a lie.

He did _not_ love her.

_And how dare she tell me I do!_

xxxxxx

They avoided each other for the next couple of days. After their initial confrontation, awkwardness on both ends had ensued, and neither one felt particularly comfortable in the other's presence. Sirius had stopped sleeping with her at night, and had ceased to administer his promised kiss, but Antoinette hadn't complained about it. Sirius was grateful for that, and it made his life a lot easier to deal with. He only hoped she didn't mention the annulment.

But he'd had Order work to do anyway. The very same night of their talk in fact, he and half the Order had been called to subdue a Death Eater attack in a sleepy muggle village in Nottinghamshire. They had been lucky this time, because the only casualties had both been Death Eaters. But that was _after_ the village had been half-demolished.

His mood had been considerably black that night, and he was thankful that he and Antoinette had not been talking at the time. He felt certain that he would have somehow, unintentionally, insulted her otherwise.

The next day, however, had been calm as you please and Sirius himself had not been ordered to do anything. He had no choice but to stay at home. He _had_ tried Remus at first, but his friend hadn't been at home. Peter had been too busy doing something Sirius still wasn't exactly clear about even now, and the Potter's had taken a trip to a muggle park for the day.

He was stuck. And he hated it. Occasionally he'd pass Antoinette in the corridor or at breakfast (at which point he would make a hasty exit!) and, beyond a polite nod to each other, there was no conversation.

He missed her. He missed her company. He missed the way she'd look at him when she thought he didn't know. He missed — incredible though it was for him to believe — their daily tension. Their spats, their disputes, their reconciliations.

He missed kissing her.

He missed being able to touch her whenever he wanted. It was agony when, as he sank into a particular armchair in the living room, that he would smell her lingering perfume.

And he was furious because of it all!

Yes, Sirius was furious. But at himself more so than his wife. And in a few days he would have to tell her that she'll be living with his mother from now on . . .

As for Antoinette, the only emotion that could describe how she currently felt was confusion. Complete, uncontrolled confusion.

She loved him.

It hadn't been hard to discover. She had always been very honest with herself, but she was sorry that it had to be so. She didn't _want_ to love him. It was a hassle and a stress and she wished it would stop.

Antoinette was divided between two emotions: joy upon discovering that she had finally managed to find love, and despair because of the fact that it was so stressful and heartbreaking.

Thus, she was confused.

And how very quietly he had made his little speech. Of course it had all been a load of dung, but she had never seen him so serious before. And what a fool he was, what a fool she had been! How wrong she had been these past weeks! She desired him, yes, sometimes more than was healthy for her. But how could she miss the one most important fact in their relationship so far?

She _did_ love him.

And had only been too stubborn to see it, just like he was being now.

Antoinette paused in her thoughts to reflect a little on the feeling; something she had done a lot over the last two days. On the one hand she was shocked, but not horribly so, to discover that she truly was in love with the irritable man, and had been ever since the first night of their honeymoon. Ever since she have first noticed how stubbornly determined he was to ignore their mutual attraction. On the other hand, her loving him did not bode well for her sanity. He was likely to cause her, without meaning to, more than enough heartbreak. Loving someone else, she felt sure, was also slightly frightening. Giving herself emotionally to someone like that seemed suddenly very disturbing.

Vulnerable.

Naked.

She shivered. Her soul felt as if it had been stripped away and shoved into Sirius. Of course he didn't know he had it. _And he wouldn't know_, she told herself silently. Not until she was sure of his feelings. She didn't think he'd lied. She was almost positive that he didn't love her.

Yet.

He was protective of her now. He cared for her. Their special circumstance, their betrothal, their families, their initial reaction to each other, made them blind to the fact that they _could_ love each other. Where was it written that they couldn't? "I don't love you," he had said.

_But that doesn't mean he won't!_

xxxxxxx

An uneasy truce had settled between them after the initial two days had past. The truce was brought to an abrupt halt on the fourth day when an owl, black and haughty, flew in through the kitchen window clutching a letter bearing the Malfoy family crest in its beak. It landed on Antoinette's corner of the breakfast table.

Sirius _exploded_. "What in Merlin's Devil Beard is that bird doing here?"

Antoinette decided to play it as if it were not a big deal. _So much for hoping Sirius wouldn't recognise the crest . . ._ "Probably Narcissa Malfoy, _oui_?"

"Yes, probably," Sirius gritted out. "But what the hell is she doing writing to you?"

"I imagine she merely wishes to welcome me into the family."

Her husband snapped his teeth together, brow furrowing dangerously, and he still managed to look gorgeous doing so. "Why," he said after several controlled breaths, muscle in his jaw locking, "would she do that? Come to think of it, how do you know the name Narcissa at all?"

Shrugging, Antoinette flicked open the crest and pulled the letter out of its envelope. "Your, er, _dear_ mother told me all about the Malfoys. And were they not invited to our wedding? Really, I have no idea why you are going on so."

All this was true of course, but she only barely managed to keep away her blush. Sirius did not know that she had already met Narcissa Malfoy, and she was hoping that he would never find out.

"Give me the letter," he demanded, curtly.

_In his dreams._ "No."

"It might be jinxed!" he tried. "You never know with these people. I should examine it first — to determine if there's anything harmful there or not. Might have used poisonous ink or something." He shot across the table and a made a grab for the letter, which she smartly held out of his reach.

"You're behaving ridiculously. This is my private letter. And if there is anything in the contents of which that concerns you, I shall tell you about it after I read it."

"But the jinx —"

"Do you think me incapable of detecting whether there is a curse on this letter or not?"

He crossed his arms and glared.

"And what an absurd notion. I don't know where you got _that_ idea from."

"It's _not_ absurd," he grumbled. "Look, just let me read —"

"No." She drew the word out. "Now shoo. Go away and let me read in peace."

His mouth dropped open. "Shoo?"

She blushed. That had been too bold. She would have to play along with it. "Yes."

"I am not going to–to _shoo_. I'm going to finish my breakfast." He indicated to his half eaten scone, his piece of sausage, and the empty goblet — the contents of which were now spread over the white linen table cloth (courtesy of his leap across the table).

Sirius, to give him his due, pretended nothing of the sort had happened, and set about pouring himself another glass from the flagon in the middle.

Antoinette had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at his perseverance. He would never surrender, and it was one of the things that made him so endearing.

But at least they had reached a compromise.

She unfolded the letter.

_Dear Mrs Black,_

_Our conversation in Diagon Alley four days ago_ — it was suddenly yanked out of her fingers.

"Sirius!" She had looked up just in time to see him pocket his wand. He now brandished the letter like a victor his spoils.

"Yes," he said innocently.

She could not _believe_ it. "Give it back!"

"Not until I've had a chance to read it."

She withdrew her wand, and was pleased to see his eyes turn wary. "I won't give you any warning."

"You can't be serious."

She flicked her wand. The letter instantly caught fire. Sirius yelped dramatically and dropped it before the cinders burned him.

"Now _there's_ a jinx for you. Figure that one out!"

He stared at her incredulously. "You just burned your own letter!"

"What of it? I never wanted to read it in the first place!"

In the next second all Antoinette heard was raucous masculine laughter. Three seconds after that her own laughter joined his. Just what was so hilarious escaped her.

"Do —" Sirius held on to his stomach, "Do you think Narcissa's waiting for a reply?"

"Yes," she gasped.

The laughter died out five minutes later. Husband and wife clutched their stomachs, wincing.

"I have never laughed like that before."

Sirius grinned. "Get used it."

She stared at him. That sounded like a promise.

He raked his hair; a nervous gesture of his. "What I meant to say was — that is — I mean . . ."

"You know," Antoinette began, tracing the edge of spilled pumpkin juice with her finger, "you haven't kissed me the last three nights." She peeked up at him, in time to see him swallow.

"No," he agreed.

They were still breathing hard.

They were still smiling.

They were still staring.

They stood, moved closer, and fell into each others arms.

xxxxx

A/N: I really would like anyone to tell me if I went over the rating in this chapter. I have a feeling that I might have, but I checked the rating register and it said that M ratings are permitted sex scenes, but not explicit ones. I didn't think this was explicit (after all, S & A didn't go the whole way) and I only hope now that they warn me if they're going to be taking this story off the site.

This is also the very first time I've written anything of this sort, and I'm feeling a little apprehensive. Please be gentle.

A/N: Also, if anyone doesn't know, the literal meaning of "cur" is actually mangy, ill-tempered dog, so there's a double pun there whether Antoinette knows it or not.


	13. Birthday Surprise

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: A very BIG thanks to all those who reviewed. This story doesn't get a lot of those [reviews and the ones it does get keep me going until the next chapter. After all, why bother writing a story if no one's going to comment on it? I'm so happy _DTH_ is a favourite for some of you. I'll endeavour to keep it that way.

**WARNING/SPOILER ALERT:** There's a sort of spoiler for _Deathly Hallows_ in this chapter, in the last scene. It's not _really_ one — actually I'm pretty sure it's not. I just used a derivative of a slang description that a character in _Deathly Hallows_ said in response to something. i.e., something similar to "Merlin's Beard" — but I thought I'd mention it just the same. Just to be safe.

Hope you enjoy the chapter. A pretty low M rating this time.

A/N2: Oh yes, before I forget: This chapter is dedicated to my cousin, who today turned seventeen. Happy Birthday, Mut! (And I swear it's just a coincidence).

xxxxx

**Chapter Twelve: Birthday Surprise.**

The door Sirius had been steadily knocking on for the past five minutes opened with a violent tug. A ragged — even more than usual — looking James Potter stood upon the threshold, still in his night clothes. His face bore a look of intense annoyance that suggested he would very much like to hurt his best friend.

"What on earth are you doing here so early?"

"Sorry, but I need Lily."

That statement, if coming from anyone else, would have caused James to narrow his eyes in suspicious jealousy. But as it was Sirius, the bespectacled man merely growled. "It's bloody . . ." he looked down at a nonexistent watch, "whatever time it is in the early morning —"

"Six," Sirius injected helpfully.

"Six!" James cleared his throat. "Whatever. You know I've got that thing for Remus I have to do today —"

"I thought that was yesterday?"

"It was _supposed _to be but I couldn't find him."

"What d'you mean?" Sirius asked.

"Exactly what I said. I couldn't find him. And why are you frowning? Never mind. Getting back to the topic at hand: what could you possibly need Lily for at this time of hour?"

"It's Antoinette's birthday today."

James blinked. "And for that you woke me up?"

Sirius was practically bouncing on his toes. "I need her help with something."

"Who's help? Your wife's or my wife's?"

Sirius glared. "Don't be smart."

James groaned and stepped aside to allow Sirius in. "Surprised you didn't come through the Floo," he murmured.

Sirius chose to ignore that statement.

"I'll get Lily. You stay _here_," James ordered, pointing at a spot on the floor, just barely stopping from laughing outright at Sirius's shocked expression. "_Stay!_ Good boy."

"You arse!"

Chuckling, the eldest Potter left the room.

Sirius amused himself by running fingers over the photos on the mantelpiece and watching the occupants shriek as they ducked out of the way.

A scraping sound brought him out of his musings.

James, sleepy Lily in tow, crossed into the room. "Here she is. Do what you will." Then he promptly shuffled back out. Sirius could hear his feet plodding tiredly up the stairs.

"I'm so sorry, Sirius," Lily yawned, hair mused from sleep. "I'd forgotten about this morning."

"But you baked everything last —?"

"No," said Lily trudging off to the kitchen, Sirius following behind impatiently. "I've yet to make the chicken."

"And that's —"

"Oh no!" she froze in the threshold, forcing him to a jolt behind her. "I didn't get any wine!"

"I told you to leave that to me. I purchased everything else, didn't I?"

The redhead turned, looked up. "But we — that is, me and James — wanted to give Antoinette something as well." Her distress was obvious.

In his head, Sirius counted to ten. "First of all; James is completely oblivious. Secondly; you don't need to get her anything. I doubt she even expected me to do anything for her."

Lily smiled slyly. "And why exactly are you doing this for her, Sirius?"

"Not for the reason you think," he frowned. "Don't look for something that isn't there." Then: "Shesavmlife."

"What?"

He looked down. "She saved my life. That's why I'm doing it."

Lily blinked. "Please don't tell me it has something to do with V—"

"No," Sirius said hastily. Of course that would be her first thought. "Nothing like that — in fact, you don't need to know the reason."

Her eyes flashed and Sirius knew he should have thought before opening his mouth. "Excuse me! One of my best friends — the godfather of my child — almost dies, and you expect me not to care about it?"

"Er, yes?"

Lily pinched the bridge of her nose. "You have ten seconds to explain before I strangle you, Sirius Black!"

"I drank boiled water by accident and she healed me, all right!" He thought about that for a moment, realised he'd just made himself sound like an idiot, and quickly amended, "It was actually boiled tea."

Leaf green eyes, the exact shade of his beloved godson's, stared up at him blankly. The owner shook her head, turned. "Only you, Sirius. I'm not even going to ask how that happened."

"Good, because I won't tell you. Embarrassed myself enough for one day. And would you hurry up and make that damn chicken! I still have to go to the Ministry."

xxxxxx

Reginald Quiggly was the Second Undersecretary of the Secretary of the Head of Floo Department at the Ministry of Magic. His job was highly important. In fact, he wasn't boasting when he said that the Floo Department would be lost without him — practically confunded — and that, without his assistance, they would have tripped over themselves long ago. Indeed, Quiggly's work consisted of: making sure that everyone had their morning tea; taking notes (when required); and getting lunch.

He was also assigned to Floo Duty; meaning that all those nasty little packages that were too cumbersome for owls had to be passed through the fire under the supervision of Quiggly himself.

Yes, his work was extremely important.

Just now a package, rather more polished and expensive looking than most others he'd directed through various hearths, was spat out of the nearest Fire. It rolled somewhat (if a wooden box can roll, more like tumbled) until it came to a rest by his feet.

He bent down to pick it up, noted the address on the piece of gold lace tied to the top, and nearly dropped it when it started jumping.

"Looks like you've got a live one there, Reginald."

Quiggly jumped stupidly at the voice that came out of nowhere, turned, and blinked up into Arthur Weasley's young face.

"What're doing here so early, Arthur?"

"Problems in Pratt's Bottom," offered the slightly balding man, bouncing a little on his toes. "Got called in early this morning to take care of it. Bunch of kids just out of Hogwarts; thought it'd be funny to shrink keyholes. I have to fill out the paperwork now." He grimaced, as though this prospect wasn't particularly desirable.

"Don't envy you," Quiggly grunted, still smarting slightly from the fright he'd received.

But Arthur wasn't paying attention to anything except the large box settled in Quiggly's arms. "Mrs Sirius Black?" he queried, tilting his head to better look at the gold-lace note. "Yes I'd, erm, heard about that marriage. Arranged I'd thought, until we — that is, Molly and I — saw them one day in the Leaky Cauldron."

"Oh?" Quiggly himself had heard that the new Mrs Black was a beauty; comparable only to a pure-blooded Veela. But of course that was an exaggeration.

"But they seemed very much involved; the young Mr Black and his then fiancée. Stunning girl, of course, though slightly proud I think."

"Bit of a nose elevator, eh?" said Quiggly, and Arthur nodded in agreement.

They exchanged small talk for a few minutes, along the prescribed lines of:

"How's the family?"

"Oh fine, fine. Charlie's just started Hogwarts."

"Already?"

And so forth . . .

"Best be off then," said Arthur, turning to go. "You, er, going to have whatever's in there screened?"

"Of course!" said Quiggly, barely managing to withhold his blush. In truth he had not thought of that. It wasn't every day that a live something-or-other that wasn't a witch or wizard got pushed through the Floo.

Arthur waved goodbye and hastened to the elevator, tatty briefcase dangling from one long arm. As he stepped in an owl whizzed after him and settled on the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling. Quiggly had enough time to see the owl dump its load onto Arthur's shoulder (and the aforesaid's grimace) before the gate of the lift clanged shut.

There had been talk in the Ministry of using charmed inter-departmental memos instead of owls. Quiggly had thought that a ridiculous idea — hardly having to actually use the elevator, seeing as his post was on the last floor and he could just Floo wherever he wanted, and thus never having to deal with the hoards of feathers and droppings his colleagues kept complaining about — but perhaps . . .

He pottered to the security administration desk at the far end of the atrium. Eric Dobson sat there, as usual, flicking through a _Mad Muggle _comic and looking like he hadn't shaved in days. His had to be the most boring job in existence. Not at all important. Not like his own.

"Dobson," said Quiggly.

"Quiggly," returned Dobson, who wasn't much fond of the Floo Supervisor. But then, the Floo Supervisor wasn't much fond of him.

"I need you to run your probe thingy over this box."

"Wand?" Dobson grunted in a bored tone.

"I _work_ here," Quiggly gritted through clenched teeth.

Dobson smirked. "Oh, forgot."

It was not in Dobson's nature to be subtle, but bantering with Quiggly had to be the highlight of his day.

The security wizard ran his probe over the box in Quiggly's arms.

"Nothing dangerous in there," said Dobson after he'd finished inspecting every inch, just to annoy the other wizard. "Probably a chicken, if it's anything."

"Why would somebody send a chicken?" Quiggly demanded.

Dobson shrugged. "Dunno. It's come from France hasn't it? Maybe they have better tasting chickens over there."

Quiggly didn't think that statement deserved any sort of response except a great sniff, which he produced. "I'd best get back to my post. I'll leave you to your —" he paused for dramatic affect "— _comic_ book."

"Oh good," Dobson returned. "I was just up to the good part. Martin Miggs has just stolen his dad's gun — you know one of those metal wand things — and is planning to kill some, er, rubbish."

"What utter nonsense!" Quiggly snapped. "Muggle's really _are_ mad. What idiot kills rubbish!"

"No–no he's practising, see, in something called a 'garbage yard'. But then he accidentally kills a bird. . ."

Quiggly turned to walk away. He didn't get very far because he bumped into a very large, hard something and had to be steadied by that something in case he fell over.

"Excuse me."

That something had a very deep voice. Quiggly looked up at his rescuer; his jaw dropped.

_What are the odds,_ he thought desperately to himself.

Sirius Black stood before him wearing garments highly inappropriate for Ministry visitation: muggle clothing. And tasteless as well. Quiggly could even see the outline of his — _ahem_, best not to look down there.

The black-haired man — how did he get his hair to stay like that anyway? — was looking at him strangely. "Are you right?"

Quiggly himself was short and thin with not much hair, and he always resented people that were better looking than he was. Sirius Black was _better_ than better looking, and therefore Quiggly was rather more than slightly intimidated. He was also furious with himself for letting the other wizard flummox him so much, and without even having to do anything but stand there. He _hated_ loosing control; something which someone in his particular position could ill afford. His _position_ was important. He, Quiggly, was important. Sirius Black was a nobody. The only interesting thing he'd done of late was get married to a witch from France and thereby join two influential pureblood families together. Quiggly had read it himself in the paper.

And so what if he was a blood traitor? So what if he'd been brave enough to publicly denounce his family in these Dark Lord-infested times? So what if he was working with Albus Dumbledore against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (although that last one was a rumour); he wasn't any better than Quiggly. Quiggly was the Floo Supervisor. He actually worked. What did Sirius Black do?

Come to think of it: what was Black doing at the Ministry anyway? Surely . . . surely he wasn't asking for a job? Oh, how simply horrid that would be! Having to greet him every morning, exchange pleasantries — _Him:_ this vision of perfection and magnificence and luck that surpassed Quiggly so far it made him want to throw up at the unfairness of it all. No, he wouldn't stand for it! He'd petition against it! Suddenly he hated Sirius Black for his darkly dramatic looks and good fortune. He had a beautiful wife, he had millions of Galleons, and he was going to get a job at the Ministry!

Quiggly felt a small painful tightening in his chest at that moment upon realising that he couldn't do anything about it, and that some people just had all the luck.

And he could not believe how worked up he had become. And all because of a speculation! He was suddenly very ashamed of himself.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just had a bit of a fright. I mean _not_ a fright, more like a, er . . . _tripped_! Yes, I _tripped_."

There was a _nasty_ silence.

"Oh," said Black.

Quiggly was pleased to note — with an inwardly gleeful smirk — that the wizard was looking somewhat uncertain. _Ha, I've confused him!_

"Is there anything I can help you with, Mr Black?"

Black reached to rub a spot on the back of his neck, lifting that atrocious leather jacket in the process. Quiggly could clearly see the outline of muscles beneath the tight white shirt Black wore and another surge of irrational jealousy split through him.

"Actually," said Black in that deep voice, "you might be able to. I'm looking for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office."

Quiggly blinked. _What are the odds_, he thought again. He had only just finished speaking to Arthur Weasley.

"You want Level Two, then: Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services.

Quiggly drew himself up proudly. He had memorised that, plus the other department logos, his first day at the Ministry and never failed to demonstrate his knowledge when opportunities such as this arose.

"Anything else, Mr Black?"

"Have to get my wand checked."

"Oh well I can't help you there, that isn't my jurisdiction. Eric can help with that." He moved aside and gestured to Dobson, who was once again reading his comic. "I'd best get back to the Fires anyhow. Good day to you, Mr Black."

Black smiled like he was in on a joke that Quiggly wasn't privy to. "Good day."

As Quiggly scurried away he heard Dobson's bored voice once more asking for "wand?".

When he reached the Floo post it occurred to him that he carried a package that was addressed to _Mrs Sirius Black_, and would therefore save him trouble, time, and Floo powder if he were to hand said package over to Black himself so that _he_ could give it to his wife. But as Quiggly turned back to do just that the wizard in question had already stepped into the lift.

"Bollocks," Quiggly mumbled, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard him. It was all Black's fault. If Quiggly hadn't been so intent on analysing him, he would have remembered to give Black the package. Then he cheered up. At least he'd get to meet Mrs Sirius Black. He wondered if what everyone said was true . . .

xxxxx

"_Toni! Toni!"_

A gentle pressure settled upon her left shoulder. Antoinette reached over and brushed it off, then snuggled even more pleasurably into the hammock cushions.

"Wake up would you, we have to leave soon. What're you doing sleeping this early in the morning?"

Sirius brushed a finger lightly over her cheek, feeling the velvet softness. He was glad she had found this place, his own special sanctuary in the small garden behind the house. The hammock — large enough to host several bodies — was strung up between two fat columns. An assortment of berry bushes, frangipani trees, and old roman statues surrounded the lot. It was, in fact, quite a romantic gathering, something which Sirius had not appreciated when he'd first placed the hammock here. His Uncle Alphard had been quite the epitomic gardener, charming the flowers and berries so that they always bloomed no matter the season.

Unfortunately Sirius was anything but, and the garden had become more than a little overgrown. That wasn't to say it didn't still hold a certain allure. In fact, in Sirius's opinion, it looked better now than when he had first stumbled upon the place, right after Alphard's death. It was cooler now, more intimate . . . just _more_.

Sirius bent down and placed his lips beside his wife's ear. "Toni, I need you to wake up."

She moaned.

Oddly, Sirius was encouraged by that sound. His trousers even gave a small twitch, but that was so normal by now that he barely acknowledged it. That still, however, left the problem of his sleeping wife. His brow curved wickedly as a diabolical thought occurred. _Should he . . .?_ He hadn't pranked someone in a long time — not since Hogwarts — and it wasn't as though he'd get caught. Antoinette would never know. He would just give her a bit of a scare . . .

With that thought, and with a small, nearly silent pop, he transformed into Padfoot — and let out the loudest, most frightening bark he could.

As predicted Antoinette awakened, shrieking enough to deafen him. It took her only a moment to register his presence before, eyes widening, she started violently. What Sirius hadn't predicted was the hammock swaying dangerously with her movement and Antoinette toppling over backwards and onto the grassy earth with a thud that would forever echo in his gut. Sirius didn't stop to think about how stupid he'd been: he merely transformed again and rushed to her side.

"_Toni! _Oh God, oh God_ please _I'm such an idiot!Please be all right!_ Please!"_ His frantic hands wouldn't stop shaking as he gently, extremely gently, turned her to face him. She had actually flipped as she'd fallen off the hammock and landed on her beautiful head as a result.

Her eyes watered as they met his own. "Sirius? When did you get here?" She tried to sit up then, groaning, brows crinkling, withdrew from the attempt. "Oh, my head." She gasped and her eyes flew open; his shoulders caught in a grip that was almost too fierce for such slender fingers. "_Grim!_ There's a . . . I think it's a Grim! It's large and horrible and it-it-it tried to _eat_ me!"

"There's no Grim," he answered back in French, brushing back her long hair, which had tangled in her fall. And all the while guilt gnawed at his gut. "I didn't see any Grim."

"Oh God I'm going to die," she said.

"_NO!"_ he shouted, surprising them both with how much passion he inflected in that one word. "_You're not going to die!_ There is no Grim. I promise you."

"My head," she said, her voice small and lost.

"I know, love. You hit your head when you fell. You might even have a concussion. I'm going to check, all right."

A small noise of assent left her mouth.

All Order members required training in at least basic healing: one couldn't afford to die of blood loss or be hampered by an injured wand arm in the middle of a battle after all. Sirius was no exception to this rule. One flick of his wand confirmed most of his suspicions and all of Antoinette's injuries. No concussion, thankfully, but she now sported a pulled muscle in her lower back; a dreadful lump on the side of her head; a throbbing jaw, and also . . . _cramps?_ It took him an embarrassingly long time to puzzle out just what that meant and, when he did, his neck flamed scarlet. He was thankful the garden was a cool, shadowed place.

Sirius slid his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, making sure that her head was comfortably pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder, then he stood and walked back to the house, marvelling at how perfectly light she was despite her height.

"Rotten thing to happen on your birthday, eh?"

Sapphire eyes glanced up at him, puzzled. "You knew?"

"Your parents told me a while ago."

"Hmm."

Sirius crossed the threshold when they reached the back door, opening it with sheer thought alone so that it banged violently against the interior wall. He surprised himself, and Antoinette, then. He hadn't been able to do that since he was a child. Noting absently that his heart was still throbbing a million miles a minute, he continued on. Was it possible that his magic was reacting to his fear? It wasn't an illogical thought. Had he really been that frightened?

He looked down at the bundle in his arms, only to find it staring back at him, its expression calculating.

"What is it?" he asked, crossing in to the drawing room.

She didn't answer until he placed her down on the sofa; slow and gentle so that nothing jarred that precious body. "I never realised how powerful you are."

Not wanting to admit that it was his fear of her health that had caused his magic to spontaneously erupt like some prepubescent youth's, Sirius merely shrugged in response. She could think what she liked. "I've a healing draught in the kitchen cupboard. Should clear you right up."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'll go get it."

"Thank you."

"You don't need to," he snapped, her cool tone rubbing him raw. Her eyebrows flew up. Raking his hair, he looked down. "Look I'm sorry. It's just . . . never think you need to thank me for anything. I'm your husband. It's my job to —" he stopped right there as her eyebrows rose even higher. Sirius grimaced at his near blunder. It was also his job to have sex with her, but did he do it?

"I'll get that draught, then we'll talk. And _don't_ move!"

Two minutes later he came back to find that Antoinette had disobeyed him.

"What did I tell you about moving?!"

"I merely retrieved a pillow."

"And exerted yourself with the effort not to pass out!" He could detect the fine sheen her skin had taken and again, without any effort whatsoever, his mind wandered back to the night they had almost made love. "And stop sweating for Merlin's sake!" he added, too aroused to worry about how stupid he sounded. "Drink this."

She took the cup, gestures hesitant. "Does it taste revolting?"

"That's a rather redundant question don't you think?"

"If I wasn't in such pain I would laugh at you right now, Sirius."

He did it for her. And loudly. "I'm glad to hear it. And don't forget to drain every last drop as there isn't much in there — no, there's still some at the bottom, keep going. I'm going to have to ask Lily to make some more. She was always very good at potion-making."

He stole back the flask when she finished. "Will this put me to sleep?" she asked.

"No. Which is fortunate as I have plans for us today."

"Plans?" She sat up, comfortable now that the potion had started working. "What plans?"

"It is your birthday isn't it?" He didn't have time to see her response because he strode off to the kitchen.

She followed him. "Oui, but I never expected . . ."

He dropped the flask into the sink and whirled around. "Never expected what? That I'd do anything?"

"Partly," she said, frowning at his derogatory tone. Then she tsked. "What has made you so defensive? I asked a simple question."

Sirius flopped down onto a kitchen chair, ran a hand over his jaw. "I'm being an arse."

Antoinette stifled a small noise in her throat. "I'm afraid I have to agree with you in this circumstance."

Grinning, he leaned back in the chair, tipping it dangerously, studying her with his silver gaze. "To be honest I don't know why I'm being so defensive. I expect I – well I expect I didn't take into account just how your being injured affected me. Emotionally I mean — and stop bloody grinning, Toni! You already know I care for you . . ."

"You were worried."

He looked at her as though she was stupid. "Of course." Then added, very quickly. "You're my wife."

"That excuse is getting rather old now, dear Sirius."

"Go upstairs."

Antoinette threw him a sharp glance at the sudden change of topic. "Why?"

"You're going to get changed." His eyes were smiling now, but, perversely, that just made her even more suspicious.

"I am?"

"Yes — Great Merlin stop looking at me like I'm about to eat you!" he chuckled. "You're far too suspicious for your own good. Although in other circumstances . . ." he shrugged playfully. "I've left some clothes for you on our bed."

Her heart thrilled when he said "our" and she had to fake a sudden coughing fit to disguise her red cheeks. _Mon Dieu_, could she get anymore pathetic acting like the proverbial school girl.

A glass of water was suddenly thrust under her nose. She accepted it, even though she didn't want to. After taking a few sips she handed it back. "Where are we going?"

"The muggle world," was the unexpected response. Her expression must have shown bewilderment because Sirius said, tightly, "What?"

_You stupid, stupid man! _she thought, though inwardly Antoinette cursed herselfShe should have known he would misinterpret her response. _He_ was the one entirely too suspicious. Sirius had always believed, from their first meeting most likely, that Antoinette — being a pureblood witch raised with all the decided prejudices that came with the occupation — disliked muggles. It was her fault, really, as she'd never once corrected this assumption of his, as she'd done the others. And he probably would not believe her if she did so now, if she came right out and said it.

"Sirius," she said, and floundered a little at that hard, all too familiar gaze. "I have never worn muggle clothing before. I'm not certain how to put it on."

She'd said the right thing; his expression softened. "If you have any trouble — not that I think you will — just call and I'll come help."

Antoinette, feeling emboldened now, reached out and ran a finger over the sleeve of his leather jacket, stomach jumping when she heard Sirius's breath catch. "If the clothing is anything like this I'm sure I will manage."

Sirius caught her hand as she went to pull back, pulled it up to his lips, and placed a short kiss on her palm. "I love your hands," he whispered, staring right at her. "They're so different from mine. Much softer. I love how they feel against my skin." As if to demonstrate he placed her hand over his cheek, still holding it in his own. He mustn't have shaved because the bristles scraped over the sensitive skin of her palm. She shivered.

"Change," she whispered.

His lip tweaked in bemusement.

"I mean," she said, desperately trying to find her place. "I must go and change now."

Sirius nodded, still amused.

"I will need my hand back."

His eyes flickered for the first time, up to the hand trapped against his cheek then back. "You will." He placed another kiss on her hand — but this time he performed the formal action; turned it over so his lips skimmed the back of it — and released her.

Turning, she walked out of the room. Calmly.

Her husband's help was not needed in the end, although she had a little trouble putting on the course blue trousers; partly because they draped over the curves of her bottom and thighs in a bordering on scandalous way, but mostly because she found them difficult to walk in. Antoinette had never before experience something moulding the length of her legs, thighs and buttocks in quite so ignoble a fashion. Any undergarments she tended to wear were bulbous and fluttery and very sheer. But these "jeans" . . . well, she had never blushed so much in her life. But as it seemed Sirius favoured them himself, she could only grit her teeth — ignore the slight heaviness — and bear it.

And it was all worth it in the end when Sirius saw her walk — albeit a little bow-leggedly — down the staircase. He had not been able to keep his eyes off of her, particularly her bottom and chest, where the long-sleeved white blouse draped most becomingly over her breasts.

"You look stunning," he said after gesturing for her to twirl a little. "But it's missing something . . ."

"What?" she asked, more sharply than she'd meant to.

"This." He produced something from his back pocket and enlarged it.

The "this" turned out to be another leather jacket, almost exactly like his own but designed in a more feminine style. Her eyes lit with pleasure. "Ohhh," she breathed. "Oh it is beautiful."

"I'm glad you like it," said Sirius, clearly very pleased by her reaction. Then he turned her gently so he could slip the garment on.

It felt wonderfully cool and heavy against her skin and, just before Sirius turned up the collar, he pressed a kiss to her neck. "_Sirius . ._ ."

"You should wear it down," he breathed, lips tracing her hair.

"Muggles don't wear this style?"

"No. At least not in the last two hundred years."

"Hmm."

"_Antoinette,"_ he whispered, hot breath tickling her ear.

Before he had a chance to move away she twirled around, arms locking about his neck. "It's my birthday. Give me a kiss, Sirius."

Grey eyes hardened to steel. "If you insist."

"I do insist. I shall be insisting quite a lot today."

He chuckled. "And I'll be happy to oblige, Mrs Black. Very happy." Then he kissed her. Once.

"Oh, I hate it when you do that."

His chest shook. "I know." Fingers threaded through her hair, shook it, scattering pins everywhere.

"Sirius!"

"If you want to please me you'll wear your hair down today."

This gave her pause. If she wanted to please him? Of course she wanted to please him. "If you insist."

"I'll be insisting quite a lot today too, love. _Tit for tat_ as the saying goes." Then he kneaded her scalp, occasionally lifting stray locks to drape behind her shoulders. "I love that your hair is so long and wavy. It goes all the way to your bottom. Do you have any idea what that does to me? Those curling locks swaying and swishing over the top of your bum like that? I love watching you leave the room, it's almost as good as when you enter it." He lifted one lock to his lips, kissed it.

Her breath caught . . .

"Merlin, you must taste . . ." He placed that lock into his mouth, tongued it, sucked it.

. . . and shattered. "Stop that." God, he was a sensual man.

"Do you want me to?"

"Huh?"

"Do you want me to stop?"

"_Oui,"_ she gasped, watching as that delicious tongue curled around the small bit of hair, which was getting quite wet now.

"Why?"

"_Because I cannot stand it!" _she hissed, jerking away slightly. "If you do not mean to follow through with your actions' consequences then please stop it, Sirius. Do you not feel remorse when you play with my emotions in that way?"

Sirius's nostrils flared for a second before a hint of shame shone in those silver eyes. He dropped the lock. "I didn't know I was . . . I mean, I didn't realise . . . Damn it, I can't help it sometimes! Sometimes I just see you standing there and I can't help touching you!"

This mollified her, though she wasn't sure why. All brain activity had ceased to function.

The great oaf cared for her (and more than just as a spouse) and didn't know it.

Antoinette felt nothing upon discovering this realisation — this intensely huge, life-altering realisation — which led her to believe that she somehow must have known it already. Somehow.

And how she had come to this conclusion, Antoinette had no idea. The cognitive part of her brain had, after all, stopped working, which tended to happen more often than not around her husband anyway so she was used to it.

"That's good," she snapped right back at him, preferring instead to start an argument rather than risk blurting out what she'd just concluded. "You _should_ want to touch me. As you so often like to point out, I am your wife! That gives you ample cause."

Sirius was staring down at her by the time she finished ranting. "And yet you complain when I do?"

Her mouth dropped. Indecorously. Upon realising this she closed it and, cheeks heating, argued her point. "You confuse me."

"And you confuse me so I guess we're even."

"Stop smiling. This situation does not warrant — stop laughing!"

His hands rose in surrender. "I'm sorry; I just find it a bit ridiculous that we're arguing on your birthday is all."

She blinked. "I had forgotten."

"That it's your birthday or that we'd been arguing?"

"Birthday." Without any warning Sirius smacked her bottom with the flat of his hand. She jumped and sputtered and stared at him incredulously.

"Come on, then." He took her hands from about his neck and drew them down. "We have to leave or we'll be late. Oh and sorry about the smack but you looked like you needed it."

She gaped indignantly.

Sirius smirked, then, without warning, reached around her body and rubbed at the very spot his hand had collided with.

Antoinette squeaked, then blushed because she'd done so. Was this how Sirius had felt when she . . .? Her bottom became unbelievably hot. "Oh," she gasped. "Ohhh."

Sirius leaned in to whisper in her ear. _"Tit for tat."_

She groaned. She was going to _die!_

xxxxxx

"Absolutely not! It is far too dangerous! You shall simply have to find some other way."

Sirius sighed, leaned back on the motorbike's seat, and watched with appreciation just how tightly the jeans stretched over his wife's heart-shaped bottom as she paced. "What's really the problem here?" he interjected as she was about to start on another point. "It's not like I'm going to let you fall. I've been riding her since I was seventeen. Even built her m'self. I'm an expert." He ignored the small harrumph that came from Antoinette's direction. "Besides, you told me you know how to fly a broom."

She muttered, "Passably." Then shot him, and the bike, a weary look. "It is just . . . so big."

Sirius, who'd been about to take a breath, choked. "Big. Right. That's a good thing, though. More to hang on to. Just come here." He pattered the space in front of him.

"And why must I sit before you? I would feel more comfortable sitting behind you."

Yes, but he wouldn't. "It's better this way," said Sirius. "I can hold onto you."

"I thought you said you loose control simply by looking at me, and this would be much worse."

She had to go and remember that now? "I just want to hold you. Can't you let me hold you?" He hadn't meant to sound so pathetic, but he must have appealed to one of her instincts because she paused to look at him and then, with very tentative steps, approached the bike.

"What do I do?" she asked, eyeing the machine as if it were going to jump up and scream obscenities.

"Mount her."

Her cheeks heated instantly. "Stop using that pro-noun."

"But she's my baby —"

"Which way?" she interrupted.

"Which way what?"

"Which way do I —" her blush extended " — mount it?"

"Astride."

She glanced at him, coy, from beneath her lashes. Sirius fought an incredible urge not to groan revealingly. "It all seems a bit unseemly," she sighed. "I think I shall have to sit like this." Then she plonked that beautiful jean-clad bottom right in his lap.

He stiffened at once. "You . . ."

Antoinette laughed. "You wanted to hold me, dear husband, and now you shall. If you wish me to ride this thing then this is how we are going to do it."

"You're killing me here."

"You're the one who wants the annulment. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no problem going back upstairs and making love."

Sirius sucked in a painful breath as his trousers grew tight, and tighter, for the length of time it took to count to two. He could not believe that she, Antoinette, his usually demure wife, was saying this, and sounding so blasted confident about it too. It was as if, as if she knew something about him that he didn't yet. This made him highly uncomfortable and suspicious and, for the first time, he wasn't sure what to do.

He kissed her instead.

Hard.

For a _long_ time.

By the time they finished snogging Sirius was very ready to act on her request and take her upstairs, but he couldn't seem to move his limbs, which were now encased in a lithe long-legged grip. "How the bloody hell did you manage to do that without me noticing!" he demanded.

Deep blue eyes blinked dazedly and peered down to where they were joined. "What?" Swollen lips touched his once more before pulling back. "Oh, you mean my legs."

"Kindly get them off my waist, Toni."

She did the exact opposite. She squeezed.

"Great Merlin's _Balls!_"

Antoinette threw her head back and laughed in mischievous delight.

Sirius grunted, hands sliding down to cup and support her bottom. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Instinct," was all his impish wife suggested.

"Instinct, hmm?"

"I've found there are benefits to wearing muggle trousers. For instance, I never would have been able to do this in my robes. They tend to hamper a lot of movement." She shifted a little, in deliberate provocation.

"So I've —" Sirius gasped "— discovered, to my unfortunate pleasure."

Antoinette laughed again, the carefree sound warming him. "Unfortunate pleasure. Is there such a thing?"

"For me, yes."

"There would be for you." She tilted her head in a scrutinising manner. "You're a complete cornucopia of oxymorons, my husband."

Sirius raised a supercilious brow. "Nicely put. Your English is coming along well."

The next thing he knew his cheek was subjected to a light slap. "I have always been able to speak English, how dare you imply I don't know otherwise."

"Your accent?" he reminded her.

"A mere trifle I am positive will diminish the longer I spend in this country."

Sirius, however, frowned musingly. "I can hardly understand your father when he speaks English and your mother is only slightly better. How _did_ you learn to speak so well?"

His wife smiled that smile that shot straight to his stomach. "You."

He raised inquiring, and curious, brows.

Expelling a short breath of air, she shifted closer so that they were pressed together from chest to groin. Sirius did his best not to show any emotion. "I grew up knowing about you, and my parents hired tutors for the English language, English government, and even English etiquette to an extent. I was expected to know everything in order to please . . ." she shrugged and glanced away. "To please my betrothed."

"Hold on," Sirius said, lifting her bottom a little so that he could shift his legs. "How is that possible? How did you know about me?"

"We've been betrothed since I was born, Sirius," answered Antoinette, her own eyes puzzling a little. "Did you not know?"

"No. I. Bloody. Did. Not!"

How in the hell had that happened? How was it possible he hadn't known? The answer came without his even having to think about it: _Walburga!_ That crabby old hag! That ugly, pale-faced, hate-filled . . .

Sirius released his wife's bottom and clenched his fists, ignoring her short, almost stifled yelp at suddenly dropping to the seat. All this time his life had been planned out for him. All this time he was to have married Antoinette? What would his mother have done if he had refused? If Dumbledore hadn't asked him to provide gold for the Order? If he hadn't come back to Grimmauld Place, debasing himself? Practically begging? And his mother had just been waiting for such an opportunity, hadn't she. And he, Sirius, had walked right in and handed it to her on a silver platter all while attempting to kiss her arse and make a right fool of himself acting the purebred idiot.

_Dumbledore._

If Dumbledore hadn't asked him then he never would have gone to his mother, who never would have contacted the Le Creux's, and he never would have met . . . Sirius drew a sudden deep and painful breath. Something in his chest tightened almost to the point of heart failure, then eased. Great Merlin, he had come so close to never knowing her. To loosing her . . . .

It hit him suddenly and with full clarity.

He understood.

"Sirius, what is the matter? You look ill."

Gentle pressure against his forehead brought him out of Epiphany Land and back to harsh reality.

"I'm alright," he said levelly, lifting her hand away. "Just fine."

_But I'm not fine. I've never been less fine. I've been an idiot._

"You don't sound fine. What did you eat this morning?"

Sirius stared at her.He looked so long that Antoinette started shifting in his arms, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the silence. "Kiss me?" he asked, not being able to tell her anything more at the moment.

Her eyes lit with pleasure. "Yes."

It had to have been at least another ten minutes before he settled her back between his thighs and started the motorcycle, wheeled it out from its place in the garden shack and pulled the lever that enabled it to fly. This was the reason he'd stopped by the Ministry that morning; he'd needed to confirm from the head of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts just how exactly he was permitted to fly during the day and in full view of the muggles. Sirius, he explained to Antoinette as they flew over Guildford, had been lucky because there was a loophole in the law that stated muggle vehicles were allowed to fly, but only if they were invisible.

Antoinette asked if they were invisible at the moment, and when Sirius answered by pressing the invisibility button she shrieked and jumped against him as the machine beneath them seemingly vanished. He held her tightly to his chest and pressed a dozen silent kisses on her disillusioned hair, breathing in the flowery scent.

Damn the annulment. He was never going to let her go. He _couldn't_ let her go, not now. She was his: his wife, his partner, his soon-to-be lover and, hopefully, the future mother of his children.

Sirius only thanked Merlin that he'd figured it out now before his chance to do so had vanished as quickly as his bike had.

xxxxxx

They arrived at the movie theatre with twenty minutes to spare. Sirius flew into an alley behind said building and gently lowered the motorcycle, expertly manoeuvring it until they touched solid ground once more. He hid it behind a couple of old dustbins and charmed it so any wandering muggles would only see a smelly pile of dung which they would think twice about trying to steal.

"Not," said Antoinette, wrinkling her nose, "that anyone would."

Upon reaching the theatre they had a bit of trouble trying to work out what pounds were and, when they did, figuring out just how many pounds was worth a bucket of popcorn. "A must have," the teller had assured, whilst pushing two buckets across the counter at them and trying his best not to stare at Antoinette.

Sirius mentally thanked Lily for helping him. Of course he had dealt with muggle money before, when he used to go to pubs with Remus, James, and Peter in muggle London, but Remus had always handled the money side of the issue while the rest of them were quite happy to handle the drinking side.

"I've never been," Sirius responded to Antoinette's query. "All I know is that it gets dark and there's this big white screen. Lily says it's like watching a portrait, only you can't interact with it. The people in the screen play out their own story."

"Like a play," was his wife's conclusion.

"Yes, exactly like that. Only pre-recorded."

"Like a pensieve," she stated.

"I'd imagine so."

He had wanted to give Antoinette something she would always remember; a unique outing that she probably would not get to experience again. But now, after playing over their conversation, he really couldn't see what the big fuss was all about. Going to the muggle cinema really _did_ sound like viewing a pensieve, or watching a play. All things that both of them had seen before.

He wasn't feeling so confident now.

xxxxxx

_Raiders of the Lost Arc_ had turned out to be something neither husband nor wife would ever have expected even had they been informed of the plot beforehand, and Sirius's fears were completely blown away by the time the movie's dramatic finish had faded into a black screen.

"Remarkable!" Antoinette gushed, hands folded tightly about Sirius's waist. "How did he manage to outrun that boulder, do you think? Even _with_ magic, I would have been absolutely petrified."

Sirius had no answer to this. He was confused enough as it was that day what with the conclusion he had drawn earlier (which he hadn't been able to stop thinking about even in the darkened theatre) let alone trying to strain his brain in wondering as to how the muggles had actually managed all that. As for that actor . . .

"And the main character," his wife continued, picking up Sirius's train of thought. "I had no idea muggles could be so brave. Sirius, _thank you_ for the experience. This birthday has by far surpassed any other, well, except for last year's perhaps."

The motorbike swerved past a flock of wild ducks, which squawked in terror and scattered formation, unable to pinpoint the direction of the rumbling sound. Sirius desperately wanted to ask just why last year's was so bloody better than this year's, but thought if he did he'd just sound too petulant. Instead he said: "The day's not over yet."

"You mean . . ." His wife's hot breath ghosted over his neck as she rested her chin on his shoulder. "You do _not_ mean to tell me that there's more?"

"Of course there's more. I'm not stingy you know."

"I never thought that," she was quick to assure him. "I simply never expected you would have so much planned."

Silence impeded their surrounds (not counting the rumbling bike) as Sirius struggled to express himself. Now, he thought, would be the perfect time to tell her. To assure her that he was doing this not because he had to, not because of some honour-driven debt, but because he cared for her in more ways than just because she was his wife.

What came out of his mouth was the exact opposite. "You saved my life with that whole boiling tea incident, remember? I have to repay you somehow." Even as he was saying it Sirius knew that it was a mistake. He did not need to feel Antoinette's stiffening body to tell him nor the departure of her arms, which left his waist feeling bereft.

"What are you doing?" he asked in alarm. If she was thinking about jumping off . . .

She answered, voice frigid. "Stretching. And by the way thank you, but you needn't have thought there was any sort of debt to repay. You are, after all, my husband."

Sirius pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened, even though he wanted to kick himself for ruining the mood. No one had ever accused him of being a coward, but that's what he felt like now. Set him up against a dozen Death Eaters and he would jump in the fray without any regard to his own safety, but set him up against his wife and he turned into an utter wimp.

It was a brooding couple that touched down by the smallish pond thirty minutes later. Antoinette hopped off the bike very quickly and strode some ways away, pretending interest of the surrounding brush. Sirius, after turning off the ignition, followed her.

"This is the perfect place," he said cheerily.

She turned, slow. "For what?"

"The picnic."

And indeed it was a perfect place. Cool, shadowed, with trickling streamlets, lush trees, and cushiony grass beside a thriving wood. They might even conjure a fairy or two. Although, what with Antoinette standing there . . .

"You cooked?" she asked, nose elevated, but there was definitely some interest in her tone.

The red woven rug fluttered in the breeze as he struggled to straighten it. He thought briefly about asking Antoinette for help, but realised she'd probably refuse because of her annoyance with him. In the end he simply resorted to stilling it flat with magic. "It wasn't heavy enough," he muttered to himself, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the miniature picnic basket, which he enlarged immediately. "What? Yeah, I mean not as such. Lily helped, as did a muggle bakery." He settled on the rug and patted the space beside him. "Join me?"

_Would she?_ She was certainly hesitating. Hunger must have won out though, because Antoinette, looking a touch reluctant, settled on the rug beside him.

"How did you find this place?"

"I used to come here as a kid with my brother and older cousins." _Before they all turned mental and started following some ugly old maniac._

"It's very beautiful."

"You deserve the best."

Her cheeks lit scarlet with pleasure. Sirius grinned, seeing it.

"What have you got in that hamper?"

"Everything under the sun, I think. Lily went a bit barmy," he explained, flipping back the lid and digging through the almost bottomless basket. "She was feeling guilty that they hadn't gotten you anything, so . . ."

"Be sure to tell her that I am most thankful, won't you."

He chuckled. "You're a lot alike, worrying about what other people think."

"It is called common courtesy; something in which you can use a few lessons."

"Oh-ho, it's like that is it, you think I'm uncouth?"

"You said it."

He laughed, delighted at their banter, silently applauding himself for making her forget his tactless comment. "Here."

She took the plate he handed her, peering curiously at the contents.

"It's dead, you know. Not going to pinch you now unless you charm it to."

She sent him such a glance of mock displeasure that he had to bite his lip and turn away.

"Cracked crab? I've only had it occasionally."

"Well this is the British style. Enjoy. The sauce is particularly good you know."

Regarding him with a raised brow, she dipped a piece of crab meat into the tangerine sauce and brought it to her mouth. Sirius had to turn away at that point. Even watching her doing something as innocuous as eating always aroused him. _Especially when she eats with her fingers. _Thinking about what she was going to do with those fingers brought his gaze right back. He stared, fascinated and inflamed, as she sucked one finger, then the second. He shifted. A droplet of sauce had settled in the corner of her mouth, right where the upper lip met the lower. Sirius decided he was going to lick it off before she had a chance to do so.

He leaned in and swiped his tongue into that tempting little indent, then covered her gasp with his mouth. Now that he'd had his epiphany his head turned giddy with the realisation that there was nothing stopping him; they really were going to sleep together sooner or later. Therefore, he concluded, he could kiss her whenever he wanted without feeling guilty about arousing her.

The incident from this morning lingered in his thoughts as he yanked her onto his lap. Now why would he think of that just as they were settling down for a good snog-fest, and possibly more? It was the perfect setting for her first time too. Dappled sunlight filtered through the overhanging leaves. The grass was padded, the water trickling, Antoinette had cramps . . .

_Cramps?_

Damn and blast!

His lips tore from hers as he cursed aloud.

"Why did you stop?"

Little puffs of breath left her lusciously swollen mouth as she stared at him incomprehensively. He couldn't very well tell her that he _knew_. He would embarrass them both. But anything else other than the truth might offend her. He didn't want her to think his earlier philosophy — their ultimatum — still held supreme. It didn't, and it wouldn't ever again. If he told her he wanted to stop now she would turn cold as she had earlier up in the air. She would ignore him.

He settled on, "I have to give you your present."

"More?" she breathed, astonishment clear in her eyes. "Sirius, this is too much —"

"You are my wife," he reminded her, and slid the hand that was tangled in the hair at her nape downwards. It settled comfortably on one slim hip and squeezed. "I-I . . . care . . . very much for you."

The smile she sent him then was dazzling and, just in case he wasn't still reeling from their earlier kiss, blew away the last congruence of untainted and rational thought that might have been lingering. "I care for you as well."

He grunted "Good," looking anywhere but at the figure in his arms. He was aching to unzip those jeans of hers, yank them down her legs, and submerge himself in her softness, but nature, cruel that it was, prevented him. He placed her back in the space she had previously occupied and reached for the small velvet sack in the inner pocket of his jacket. "I hope —" he licked his lip. "I thought of you as soon as I saw it. I hope you like it."

He placed the package in her upturned palm. Slim fingers were more than a little unsteady as they pulled loose the bow, pried open the sack, tipped out the contents.

Her _"Oh Mon Dieu"_ was reverent and breathy and made his head spin.

The jewels had cost him a small fortune — not that he couldn't afford it — because they were each one pure and cut to the exact measurement. Bright oval sapphires, small, threaded through with the tiniest and thinnest of diamonds made up the major part of the necklace, while two slightly larger sapphires were positioned at the end so that they formed a backwards V. It would be a little bigger than the width of her neck when she put it on. Simple, yet elegant. Suited to Antoinette's style.

She was holding it up now, letting what little sunlight that penetrated the eaves of the canopy twinkle through the deep, deep blue. Occasionally a ray would catch just that small bit of diamond in between the blue and glisten becomingly.

"Would you like me to put it on for you?"

Her nod was slow, but certain.

"Look at me," Sirius asked.

Her gaze, framed by those thick golden-brown lashes, flew up to meet his own.

"That necklace will never compare to your own jewels." His finger traced the edge of an uptilted eyelid. He laughed, a little unsteadily. "I'm being maudlin; that isn't like me. What have you done to me, Antoinette?"

She leapt at him, jewels fisted in her hand, knocking him over so that she landed on top. Then she placed laughing kisses all over his face, his neck. _"Merci, merci, merci beacoup."_

"If I'd known this was the reaction I'd get I would have bought you the necklace earlier."

Antoinette stared down at him reproachfully and not without a little amusement. "We both know you would not have, but thank you for saying it. As it is," she drew a deep breath so that the tips of her breasts brushed against him, "I did not kiss you because of the jewels, but because of the sentiment behind them."

"I know," he said, brushing back her thick hair. "Let me put the necklace on then we'll finish lunch."

There was a lot to finish. Lily really _had_ gone mental. Prawns, chicken, salad, soup, and not one but _two_ desserts — a chocolate mud cake and a container of very creamy ice-cream. In the end they compromised with their stomachs and agreed that they would finish the leftovers that night. Or preferably tomorrow when they weren't so full.

"I cannot move," Antoinette moaned. She had changed place on the blanket, stretching out with her head on his stomach. Sirius himself was lying with one hand folded under his head while the other lifted a lock of pale-gold hair to bring under his nose.

"I know what you mean," he moaned back. "I think I'm going to throw up."

She giggled. "That is disgusting!"

"Can't fault truth, darling."

She stilled. "Are you being serious, Sirius? I mean . . . that . . . what?" Her brow crinkled thoughtfully. "Hmm."

Sirius tugged at the lock in his fingers. "If you dare make a joke about my name . . ."

She chortled, clasped a hand to her mouth, then chortled again. "I only just realised. Oh, look how you made me sound."

"Now who's the uncouth one?"

She squeezed his leg, but Sirius barely registered that. He was too busy staring. Her jacket now gaped open, revealing the white-silk blouse he'd given her — and the perfect globes of her breasts were straining, taught, underneath it. He literally had to move his free hand and stuff it beneath his head so that he couldn't reach over and knead them as he so wanted.

"I know what you're looking at."

Sirius started, observed the twitch in her lip, and flushed. "No you don't."

"I can tell you if you want. My —"

"_Don't! _If you care for me at all you will not finish that sentence."

Elated laughter echoed in the clearing. _Scheming little witch! _

He sat up, startling her, and yanked her into his lap. Face down.

She squealed and struggled but he was much stronger. "What are you doing?!"

"Eighteen Birthday smacks, is it? Plus one for next year? That how it works?"

Gasping, she struggled even more. "You wouldn't!"

No, he wouldn't. Having on her his lap like this — wriggling around with her bottom in the air showing him just how shapely it was and practically demanding that he touch it — was too dangerous for them both at the moment. But he wasn't going to let her go unpunished.

"Fine, three smacks then. In honour of how old you're acting right now."

She tried to sit up. "How dare —!"

_Smack!_

"Oh!"

_Thwack!_

"Ouch! Sirius!"

_Whack!"_

"Oooooo!" The irate sound quickly changed into a startled gasp when he pressed his lips to one plump cheek. She couldn't have felt it very much as the material of the trousers was rather thick, but either way it affected her enormously and he — hearing the responding groan so filled with desire — gave into the urge and rubbed her buttocks anyway.

She was panting now, wriggling fit to burst. "I can't, I _can't_ . . ."

Sirius knew exactly what she was talking about. Guilt-ridden, though still more than healthily aroused, he took his hands off her bottom and plonked her back on the rug.

_Effing monthlies._

"Well I'm all for a nap now after that heavy meal. Good day." He didn't glance to see her reaction; merely yawned, turned on his side, and pretended to sleep for the better part of an hour.

_Coward._

But only with her.

xxxxx

Three hours past, agonisingly, by the time they finally made it home. Antoinette had forgiven him for his little nap, but only because she'd had one herself. Sirius had awoken with their legs twined together and his head pillowed on Antoinette's stomach; his erection had yet to diminish from that encounter. But that he had been expecting, perhaps, even on some perversely self-tortuous level, hoped for. What he hadn't counted on was the almost sappy burst of spontaneous happiness that had only seemed to grow in the last few hours. It had everything to do with feeling like the world was finally in its right place, like _he_ was finally in the right place; as if his life now held some sort of meaning that transcended beyond the everyday.

Sirius snorted. _Yeah right._

As he entered through the back door behind Antoinette Sirius heard the distinct popping noise of a house elf apparating. It took a mental debate of about two seconds to conclude that no, he would not confront his wife about enlisting his mother's help, at least not that day. Antoinette wasn't really guilty of anything nefarious; Kreacher was her servant now as much as Sirius's. Who was he to judge?

His clenched fists spoke otherwise.

As they entered the drawing room Antoinette removed her jacket and placed it on the coffee table. Instantly, all nasty thoughts flew out of Sirius's ears. He had assumed he'd judged correctly when he'd bought that shirt — evidently not as it seemed just a little too tight for his piece of mind. His wife settled on the sofa and he, still staring, plonked down in the nearest armchair.

The next second a furious hissing brought him yelping to his feet. He whirled around, gazed fixed downwards.

Antoinette, who had been trying not to blush with pleasure under the piercing gaze of her husband, jumped a little. "What is it?" she asked, seeing nothing out of the ordinary except her cat. Her very furious looking cat. _Did he almost . . .? No, he couldn't be that stupid._

"What," Sirius said, staring, "is that?"

She stood, annoyed. "My cat, Adele."

"What's she doing here?"

"My parents bought her for me a month and a half ago. Now they have sent her to me as a birthday present."

His gaze was unmoving as he demanded, "When?"

Inwardly, she frowned. His curt tone was beginning to bother her. "This morning. It came through the Floo."

"Does she hate dogs?"

What an odd question. She was beginning to think he'd had his brain soaked in bobutuber puss. "As she is a cat, I suppose she must. Why do you ask? It is not as though you have a dog — _do_ you have a dog?" Something niggled at her thoughts as she asked that question, an almost forgotten memory.

"In a manner of speaking," he mumbled, grimacing. "Can you get rid of it?"

"What a daft request! Certainly _not_, Sirius Black. And Adele's name is not 'it', it is . . . Adele," she finished lamely. Only _he_ could ruffle her composure like this. "And what did you mean by, 'in a manner of speaking'? Is there a stray around that I have not seen yet?"

Sirius's gaze seemed almost assessing as he turned to look at her. "Actually, there's a big black dog that wanders by on occasion. Just last week I found him with his nose in the garden." This was a private joke, she concluded, because he chuckled as he said it.

And then she froze. "Big, black . . . you told me there was NO grim!"

Sirius took a hesitant step back, gaze widening. "He's _not_ a grim!"

"It scared me half to death. It made me fall. You said you saw nothing!"

"I _didn't_ see anything," he stressed, though Antoinette couldn't help but notice his flickering eyelids.

"You. Are. Lying!"

His mouth opened. "I am not. Why would you think so?"

Did the man think she was daft?! "It is written all over your face."

There was an awkward pause, before: "Fine. I might have seen something, a flash of fur —very dark in the garden . . . couldn't possibly see anything of tangible proof . . ."

He worked himself into a fine trail-off until the silence turned nasty. Antoinette crossed her arms, now made easier because she'd removed the jacket. "Well, if such a dog happens to —"

"Padfoot."

She blinked. _"Excusez- moi?"_

"His name's Padfoot." Sirius shifted, staring at the floor. "That's what I, er, call him."

Staring, she tried again: "If this _Paddy-foot_ happens to come along, I shall simply curse him —"

"You'll do no such thing!" Her husband looked completely horrified, and Antoinette was taken aback. "I mean — he's a sort of companion of mine. I feed him sometimes. If he comes by let him alone. Or give him something to eat. I recommend _that_ thing." He pointed a finger at Adele.

Antoinette didn't waste a second before rushing forward, ducking around Sirius's outstretched arm, and scooping up the ball of fluff.

Sirius was laughing heartily by the time she deposited her cat outside and safely out of harm's way. "Stop glaring, Toni, you know I didn't mean it. And while we're talking of keeping secrets . . . when were you going to tell me about the house elf?"

She almost choked. But, but how did he know? Antoinette learned a very important lesson then: she could not keep secrets from her husband. He found everything out and he was far too wily by half. And there was no point denying it, he would never believe her. She licked her lip, observed the smug smile, his crossed arms. When exactly had their positions reversed?

"I'd hoped you would not have noticed."

The smile widened to a predatory grin. "I know you, Toni. You're far too _la-di-da_ to cook anything. A five course meal?" He snorted. "Please. Even Lily's not that obsessed."

She was stunned, hurt, embarrassed that he would think that. But only because he spoke the truth. Nearly. She wanted to learn to cook, she really did. _If that's true then why haven't you asked Linear to teach you?_

Because Linear is a house elf!

It was a poor excuse and she knew it.

"Are you very angry?"

He hesitated, that was obvious. Her heart hammered. What if he hated her? Oh God, she couldn't stand it. "No, not very. Annoyed, though, but only because you thought you had to ask my mother . . ." he continued on in the same vein while Antoinette frowned. He thought she'd asked his mother? How absurd. If she had anything to do with that scheming old witch it would be all too soon. A titter rose in her throat. She squelched it. Sirius would not appreciate laughter at his expense. Oh, but the relief she felt now was almost exhausting. ". . . hate him, but if he helps around the house I guess I can tolerate it. As long as he doesn't try to poison me in my sleep or something. Come to think of it that would kill him too, but it's probably what he wants."

"Of whom are you speaking?"

Sirius blinked. "Who do you think? Kreacher."

"Ah."

His gaze turned calculating. "Whom did you think I was speaking of?"

"Oh, never mind."

"Toni . . ." he trailed off warningly.

"I did not ask Walburga for help," she finally admitted.

A clench in that masculine jaw was the only sign she got of his impending anger. "_Don't_ lie to me. All evidence points to a house elf —"

"Exactly. All evidence points to a house elf."

"Toni —"

"_A_ house elf, Sirius."

He blinked. "You mean it's not Kreacher?"

She nodded.

He stared at her a few seconds before his expression turned thoughtful. "I wasn't aware Mother had any other elves."

Antoinette mentally rolled her eyes. Men could be so _dense_ some times. "She doesn't." Pausing, she gave him one last chance to get it. He didn't. Pivoting, she strode into the kitchen. Her throat was parched. "It is Linear, my old house elf. I asked Maman to send her — temporarily. Just until I get into the, how do you say . . . _swing_ of things."

"But you're married to _me_ now," he insisted, reaching for a cup out of the top cupboards when it became obvious she wasn't tall enough. "You're a Black. The magic binding a house elf and its former mistress should be severed; Lint-ear, or whatever her name is, shouldn't be able to listen to you —"

"Maman ordered her to. And give me that."

"I don't like it," Sirius grunted after a long pause, where the sound of rushing water was the only thing heard. "In-laws spying on us —"

"Do _not_ be ridiculous!"

"Tell me they wouldn't utulize the opportunity?"

Antoinette couldn't, in truth, tell him that. She wouldn't put it past her parents to spy on them actually. At least until she got settled in to her new life. Now she was getting paranoid. "I cannot say for certain . . ." she admitted.

His resulting sound was filled with triumph.

Antoinette sniffed contemptuously and gulped down her water. "You want me to get rid of her, don't you?"

One long finger reached up to scratch a brow. "Not as such . . . couldn't you order her not to — no, her first priority is to your parents."

_Trick him!_ her brain shouted. _It's the only way._ "If Linear goes, there'll be no more meals you know."

Grey eyes narrowed. "Your point?"

"I do not want the embarrassment of your going to The Leaky Cauldron for food — not to mention your going to the Potter's. I have my pride."

"You expect me to starve?" he asked, incredulous. The fact that it was not falsified stung her.

"I told you I will learn to cook. Buy me a wizarding cook book."

"Don't need to," he said. "Just order a copy of Witch Weekly. They've all sorts of recipes in there according to James."

_James?_ "He cooks?"

"He tolerates. His wife, that is. Lily can't stop jabbering sometimes."

"Fine. I shall dismiss Linear at the soonest possible opportunity."

"Right now would be good," he said slyly then, before she could even get angry, kissed her.

For a _long_ time.

Antoinette decided to forgive him.

xxxxxx

_One week later . . ._

"What in Merlin's Great Underpants do you mean?" Sirius paced along the carpet in front of the Potter's hearth, deep violet robes lifting bits of ash in his wake. "_Hiding?_ Why the hell wasn't I told about this sooner? Dumbledore should've told me, at the last Order meeting. _You_ should've told me!"

"If you would just calm down . . ." James said.

"Calm down? Calm down! My bloody best friends — my family — are about to get attacked by the Dark Lord, and you want me to calm down!"

"Calm down!" Lily screeched.

Sirius stopped in his pacing long enough to glare at her, before continuing on, with even more vigour than he had previously shown.

"You're not helping any," Lily continued, hands fisting on her lap. "Anyway, we don't really know if Voldemort's found out everything about the prophecy —"

"— which you still won't tell me about —!"

Lily continued as though she hadn't heard him. "— because there hasn't been any suspicious activity with the Death Eaters! Whoever it was that heard that Trelawney woman in the Hog's Head Inn might _not_ have even been a Death Eater. And Dumbledore thinks it's still all right to go outside. We just aren't to be seen during daytime hours. We can still go places. We just have to be extra careful . . ." She trailed off at Sirius's scowl.

"That's not the point and you know it! How you can sit there so bloody calm . . . !"

Lily burst into tears just as James yelled, "That was uncalled for, Sirius!"

Sirius looked momentarily horrified. "I–I'm . . . Merlin, Lily," he breathed. "I'm sorry. Please just . . ." He could not go on.

"It's j–just . . . I don't know how to cope, really. It's just come as such a big _shock_! And I'd never much put stock in Divination anyway, and to just find out now, about this stupid prophecy . . ." She sobbed into her hands, dark red hair falling like a curtain to hang about her face.

James put an arm around her. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you earlier, Sirius. We only just found out yesterday ourselves . . . Well, we just had to have some time to think about it."

"Of course," Sirius managed, but inside he was almost shaking with grief. Even though nothing had happened yet. _And nothing _will_ happen, _EVER_, as long as I'm around to protect them!_ His thoughts right now were so brittle and confused that he wasn't sure what to think anymore. All he knew was that he felt like bursting into tears himself, but that would only add to his grief.

"_Nobody lives once Voldemort decides to kill them."_

His eyes turned immediately hot with the thought. Dumbledore had told them that at their very first Order meeting. And to think that now, The Potters, Lily and Harry . . . He thought of his little Godson, not even old enough to talk, and almost _lost_ it. Then he thought of James, his brother, and did loose it. His chest heaved with unshed sobs. "Has–has Dumbledore thought of a more permanent solution? Other than just hiding, I mean."

The Potters looked at each other. "The Fidelius Charm," said James quietly. "Just like the Order is under. Dumbledore says it's our best bet. Although we'll still have to hide —"

"I'll do it!" Sirius blurted. "I'll be Secret Keeper!"

James's gaze turned stubborn behind his familiar spectacles. "Dumbledore volunteered."

"But —"

"I told him we wanted you instead."

Sirius stared at him. Those hazel eyes were filled with a sudden presumptuous uncertainty, but Sirius could only feel overwhelming love and gratitude for his best friend then, who knew him so well.

"Of course you did. And what kind of friend would I be if I disappointed?" He stared down at the threadbare carpet, spotting a stain. He latched onto it like a dying man does the last glimpse of his family. _Which isn't very far from the truth at the moment._ At that thought another, this time silent, sob shook his body. "When do you want me to?"

"Not yet."

He let his head snap up. "But James —"

"You forget there may be no need, Sirius. We're still unsure whether the wizard who overheard part of the prophecy told Voldemort anything. Or if he even is a Death Eater."

"At the Hog's Head? There can be no other alternative!"

"Dumbledore doesn't think so."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. Why would the Headmaster not think so, unless . . . "Dumbledore knows who it is." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said James.

"Do you?"

Lily shook her head. "He doesn't want to tell us."

"Then I'll bet it's some slimy, mangy, scum Death Eater! Dumbledore and his charity cases! He's determined to think there's good in everyone!"

"Keep your voice down, you'll wake Harry. And stop gesticulating so much, you'll knock over my vase."

Sirius spared a glance at the mantelpiece, where indeed the pressure of the wind made by his violent gestures had briefly shaken the small, glass vase. He steadied it, then resumed his rigid pacing. "I just can't believe —" He froze. "Have you told the others yet?"

James answered in the negative. "We can't find them. We have a suspicion Peter's at his mother's, but we don't know her address, and we tried sticking our heads into Remus's cottage, but he wasn't there. And we just couldn't wait anymore. We had to tell _someone_ . . ."

Suspicion _lurched_. "Perhaps it's better that you didn't find him," Sirius mumbled, but Lily had heard.

She frowned. "What are you on about? What did you mean by that? It's sounds as though you don't want us to tell Remus."

"Like I said, perhaps it's better if you didn't." He shook his head. "Never mind. Look, just keep safe. Floo me tonight — oh wait, I've got that stupid task for the Order tonight. Doesn't matter, Floo the house anyway. Antoinette will be there. You like her, right? Just, just don't stay here alone. Please." He thought of embracing them, and tried to convince himself that there was no need, that they would be seeing each other all too soon. That it was just like another day.

He couldn't.

Without breaking stride he leapt at them, squeezing arms around both Lily and James, then, because he thought he'd start crying like a baby if he remained any longer, he managed to choke out a short goodbye, and disapparated.

He was not acting himself, he knew that, yet the truth had never been so clear to him as it was at that moment. The prospect of loosing his very best and dear friends, his family, made him latch on to the only person his mind had thought, had been constantly telling him for the past two weeks, seemed very distrustful. Whose behaviour was borderline suspicious. Sirius was finally going to listen to that voice in his mind. He was finally going to believe himself, when he couldn't before.

But it was agony thinking about it. The nonexistent name had finally become a reality:

Remus.

_It could be no other._

The spy was Remus.

_Someone close to the Potter's, passing information. _

Remus, who was a werewolf

"_Voldemort has been recruiting dark creatures". _

Remus, who was _part_ of his family.

_Moony_.

How he _wanted_ it all to be otherwise.

When he appeared before his wife in the drawing room of their house she was sitting on a lounge chair, sipping a cup of black coffee.

She stood upon spotting him, blue eyes widening. "Sirius?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried to speak again, not realising how utterly brought-down he looked. "Toni, I . . ."

He wanted her comfort, but that was dangerous. He couldn't have her comfort now. He was never going to be able to hold her again because she would hate him; hate him forever for what he was about to do, but it had to be done. It was too dangerous for her now, here, with him, with all this Secret Keeper business.

Ironic how, before a week ago, he would have jumped at the opportunity to send her away. To have a legitimate excuse with which to do so. Now that he had it he didn't want it.

His mouth opened to tell her. Order her.

Choked.

Before he knew what he was doing, he fell into her; into her arms. They circled about him immediately. Dimly he heard a soft voice mumbling in his ear, the light accent soothing to his nerves. Fingers fluttered over his cheek, catching the wetness there. And only after that did he realise he was crying, and this time there was no stopping his tears.

xxxxx

A/N: Just in case anyone's confused: according to JKR wizards actually conjure fairies themselves; usually to use them as decorations or "fairy lights", then they set them free. They don't have much of a brain but they're very pretty.

Also, _Raiders of the Lost Arc_ (which was later renamed _Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Arc_) actually _did_ come out in 1981 (July or August). Since I hadn't yet been born then – wouldn't be for a fair few years in fact – I found this information on a movie website. It seemed like the sort of film us muggles would have gone nuts over and that Lily would have heard about. I've seen it, but ages ago, so if I got any facts wrong please forgive me.


	14. Despicable House, Despicable Spouse

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: I am so incredibly sorry that this chapter has taken so long. I think I gave people the impression that I had abandoned this story. Definitely not. I would have said something. Believe me, if I could, I would spend most of my days writing fan fiction, but it isn't to be. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed (_especially_ to those who have reviewed). You have remained diligently patient throughout my period of rest. This chapter is dedicated to you.

On another note: Those of you who read my other stories will be happy to know that there'll be an update shortly. I am half-way through finishing chapter twenty-four of _The Black Wizard_ now. I'd say it'll take at least a week or possibly two for me to finish it, depending on my time schedule.

Oh yes, it'll probably be better to read the last scene from the previous chapter, otherwise their might be some confusion as to the contents of this one. LoL.

Hope you enjoy.

xxxxxx

**Chapter Thirteen: Despicable House, Despicable Spouse**

_October 29__th__, 1981. . ._

"Thank you, Kreacher. I shan't be needing anything else." Antoinette, after pausing to inhale the freshly pungent aroma of pure black coffee that she'd just been handed, stared pointedly at the house elf, until, with a reverent bow, he popped out. She dismissed him and his incongruously _un_house-elfish behaviour from her thoughts almost immediately, reaching instead for the plate of cream biscuits on the little side table next to the daybed. Slender fingers wavered, undecided, over the small mound of biscuits until, with greedy zeal, they selected a round chocolate covered one.

Antoinette bit her lip, staring at the delicious chocolate sheen that covered the whole biscuit. It was glowing now, even more than usual in the yellow light of the candle lamp, which stuck out of the wall just above her head. Oh, it was _so_ tempting! Yet she really shouldn't. Her third one today, likely not the last, but for the millionth time that week she found herself not caring.

The feeling, as she bit into the biscuit a second later, was pure bliss. Really, it was more truffle than biscuit; soft and creamy on the inside, filled with decadent naughtiness. And she had been _very_ naughty this past week, yes indeed; at least three times a day, if not more. If anything could be said about Walburga Black's plate, it was that she kept an uncommonly lush one. Antoinette could not remember eating heartier meals her entire life, nor enjoying more rich desserts (and, being French, she was used to rich desserts). But then, the aforementioned could be attributed to the house elf, whom Antoinette was beginning to like despite his oddness — if only because she enjoyed eating his food so much.

Antoinette brushed her fingers over the plate to get rid of excess crumbs, took a sip, and began sorting through the photographs in her lap. A postal owl had delivered them five minutes prior to her little chocolate indulgence, Sirius having purchased them from Dedalus Diggle for a reasonable price. His note had been so impersonal, so . . . stiff. Unlike the photos.

_Antoinette,_

(he had written)

_Here are Dedalus's photos from the wedding. Had to pay three Sickles for them. I thought you'd have more use for them then I could. Give them to Mother, if nothing else._

_Regards,_

_Sirius._

Provoking her. That's what she felt like he was doing. But clearly he could not summon up enough energy to, even in his note. Yet still she felt provoked. It hurt to think about him. In both a good and bad way. He had dumped her, here, on the doorstep of the most . . . _depressing_ house in Britain.

Antoinette, to put it delicately, _disliked_ Grimmauld Place.

A lot.

With her mother-in-law's constant lectures on blood purity and traitor sons; the boggarts; the serpent statues; the elf heads in the corridor that, despite being gruesome and just simply _horrible_, were also placed alongside the main staircase so that the last thing one glimpsed before going to bed were the gaping mouths, the faces twisted in either reverence or pain at the exact moment of death (a tradition which Antoinette learned had started from a simple slashing hex wielded by her husband's Great Aunt Elladora); Walburga's spontaneous cackling and/or shrieking; Walburga insisting Antoinette call her mother; the dark artefacts — there were just _too_ many to count — and all the rest of it.

She was intolerant of the overall gloom that permeated the house. She just could _not_ get away from it. It seeped under door cracks and oozed inside the walls, dripping depression and madness with every breath she took. Hardly any sunlight penetrated the windows. Mostly because there were none. Well . . . that wasn't entirely true. Antoinette was sitting with her back to one now, after all. In fact she had opened it, and the curtains, and could now see a group of muggle teenagers in leather jackets and uplifted hair laughing on the footpath outside.

Antoinette sighed, and settled back in her chair. Sometimes she felt as though she was living with vampires. Well, she may as well be, if the pallor of Walburga's skin was anything to attest by. If Antoinette had not discovered the little garden just beyond the kitchen three days ago, she was certain she would have gone quite disheartened by now. For someone who had been born, raised, and lived in a large open space all her life getting deposited in these cramped accommodations with little air and even less sunlight . . . it wasn't to be born. But Antoinette was also raised to lift her nose, shut her mouth, and not complain. Sometimes life could throw unpleasantness to people, in which case they must remember life was just that: unpleasant.

The only thing Antoinette _could_ tolerate was Kreacher, and that only because he left her alone when asked and had taken to muttering unsavoury things about her husband under his breath. Kreacher worshipped her as he did his elder mistress and, despite finding it somewhat uncomfortable on occasion, Antoinette let him.

At least Grimmauld Place was clean, for all its gloominess. But even that one small favour could not detract from the many unflattering qualities that she could even now see. For instance: a silver knife stood upright in the cabinet along the farthest wall, inlaid with a gild handle and small rubies along the circumference. Antoinette knew exactly what it was for — a dark magic ceremony. Walburga had shown it proudly to her five days before when she had first walked out of the fireplace, boasting loudly about its significance and purpose; it being used to extract the magic from out of "mudbloods", and then filtering that magic into, well . . . Antoinette had received a very clear picture just where the stolen magic would have gone. Of course, Walburga had assured her, the Black family had ceased such practises centuries ago but the ceremonial knife still stood on display for nostalgia's sake. Antoinette, who by that point had been fighting very hard not to rush to the nearest toilet and loose all her breakfast, suspected there was more than nostalgia involved as she observed the maniacal grin gracing her mother-in-law's face.

But that was just _one_ vile thing that lurked in the house. Just that morning, in fact, Antoinette had been on the receiving end of a Doxy bite when she'd tried to move a curtain aside so that some fresh light could shine in. Luckily, Walburga brewed antidotes for just such emergencies.

Antoinette could not help thinking, again, as she had that morning: _What an odd woman . . . But certainly no less odd than me, since I didn't do anything to get rid of the Doxies. _It was true. She had not done anything. She'd been too afraid to touch anything lest Walburga decided to . . . retaliate.

_Reduced to a whimpering girl, and all in the space of five days._

_Urgh. Disgusting._

For the most part, though, Walburga left her alone, content with napping in her room three hours a day, visiting the Malfoys or the Lestranges twice a week, and shopping once a week. But despite all that Antoinette could not help but feel that over the long, long years Walburga had, almost literally, become part of the house itself. She had spent so much time locked within its walls that she, too, had started to exude a kind of crabby slimy darkness; her complexion, like the walls, sallow, and her disposition, like her name, black.

How else could Antoinette explain the infestation of Doxies and Boggarts and no doubt more creatures that she'd yet to stumble upon? A sane person would have hexed them away, not kept a variety of antidotes in the kitchen cupboard. It was as though Walburga _wanted_ to surround herself with dark artefacts and gloom, so as to be looked upon with awe, terror (and, in her mind, probably jealousy) by those on the outside.

_Mad. _

_Completely mad._

And Antoinette would never be, manually, opening a curtain again at Grimmauld Place. Ever.

Nor would she enter the hallway where the Black Family Tapestry resided. Sirius, even though he had married her, was still burnt off of it (likely vindictiveness on Walburga's part. Not that Sirius cared either way, Antoinette was sure), but _her_ name was proudly outlined in bold. Antoinette did not care about this either. What she _did_ care about were the elf-heads above it. They were just . . . _gruesome!_ It was bad enough she had to put up with them when going to bed.

The only good could thing she could say about Walburga Black was that she supported Antoinette's decision for employment. Well, not so much employment as politics. She had made it very clear that she would not object if Antoinette wanted to find work at the Ministry. She thought it splendid if Antoinette were to ooze up to Millicent Bagnold, the Minister for Magic, and extract information like some leech. She often speculated, out loud and with exaggerated gestures, that it would be "positively devious" of Antoinette to get on the Minister's payroll as her personal secretary. She would even stand for Bartemius Crouch as he was also one of the leading figureheads, possibly even more so than the Minster as he had more influence and prestige these days, what with him capturing a lot of Death Eaters.

This idea appealed to Antoinette, but only because she would be finally able to work for herself. The other suggestions she was less inclined to think over and, in fact, dismissed them completely from her mind.

Antoinette could not, however, no matter how much she tried, dismiss her husband from her thoughts. She was annoyed with him now — highly annoyed — as his explanations for having to dump her at Grimmauld Place had been vague at best and hurtful at worst. Recalling the conversation, or rather argument, they'd had five days ago was very easy for her to do as she'd been stewing over it all week. Just thinking about it now caused an involuntary clenching of her left fist. Breathing deeply, she straightened her fingers and wriggled them. It would do no good to get angry now. She needed to focus. Yet despite trying not to the argument, inevitably as always, shot to the forefront of her mind . . .

It had been an ordinary, pleasant day. Her menses had lasted nearly the entire week and she had been feeling dreadful and downtrodden the whole while. But they had finally abated the day before. Sirius had gone to work every day, doing whatever it is Unspeakables do — in fact, Antoinette hardly saw him except when he came home at some horrid hour in the morning, deposited a short kiss to her sleepy lips, and promptly fell asleep with a heavy grunt of physical _and_ mental exhaustion. And yes she saw him at breakfast, but those times were always rushed. Frequently Sirius would stride about with pieces of toast in hand and cups of tea in the other. Other times he would wave about odd pieces of parchment, muttering to himself as he looked them over. Almost always after he finished reading they would burst into flame, leaving ashes behind on the floor that Antoinette would vanish away. She could only assume the pieces of parchment had been delivered by owls, but she never knew when. Though, she _had_ heard Sirius mumbling something _very_ odd one morning as he strode past her on the stairs and into their room:

"_Stupid . . . can't use Patronus message . . . Toni . . . find out."_

_Very_ odd indeed.

The only uninterrupted time that Antoinette had spent with Sirius happened on Wednesday last week when he had surprised her by coming home early. They'd spent the day lying in the hammock in the quiet coolness of the back garden with their hands interlinked, Antoinette relaxing despite her fear of the dog coming back and Sirius dozing on her shoulder, his breath hot and moist against her neck.

Her eyes _still_ became teary when she remembered that moment. It had been so peaceful. None of the world's worries had touched them, at least for a little while. She had been so _grateful_ to give Sirius a little solitude at last. He had been so busy and tired of late. Her husband had deserved it.

Of course Antoinette had changed her mind very quickly when, not two days later, he had told her to pack her belongings as she would be leaving to live with his mother. Though he'd had a good bawl first and Antoinette comforted him like an idiot, despite not knowing why. She did not blame herself completely, though. She had not known that five minutes later he would straighten up and command her to leave . . .

"What?!" she had spat in her shock, loosing all composure.

Sirius had crossed his arms, his grey eyes hard. He should have looked ridiculous to her with his tear-streaked face and stone-like gaze, but he only managed to appear even more intimidating. "I'm telling you to leave. I don't want you here anymore."

Her heart had begun to thud very hotly in her throat. "Why?" she'd asked in a soft voice.

"Because I have important things to do. Things that you can't know about."

"What about our bargain?" she'd said, thinking that had sealed the deal. She had grown very stiff when Sirius had begun smile grimly.

"Oh, you mean the one where I promised to kiss you and sleep by your side but never specified until when?" was all he'd asked, rhetorically and snidely, and that had said it all as far as Antoinette had been concerned. So she'd slapped him soundly, without a word, and gone to pack.

Five minutes later she'd glided down the stairs to the sight of Sirius sobbing silently on the sofa. _That_ had confused her immensely, which was why she was only annoyed at him now and not furious. Clearly something had happened. Antoinette had had a vague suspicion that "the something" had a lot to do with Sirius's job and nothing whatsoever to do with Antoinette. This had calmed her somewhat, to the point where she had actually been sober enough to start concentrating on Sirius's babble as he spoke into his hands.

"I have to be firm Toni . . . uncaring . . . I won't give in . . . isn't safe for you here."

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous. T-there aren't many wards around this place. You h-have to go to Grimmauld Place. It's safer. Unplottable. No one will bother you while you're with my mother."

That still had not explained everything, but Antoinette had found it easier to forgive him. She was still annoyed with him — on occasion angry when remembering all the hurtful things he'd said — but it was a tolerant kind of annoyance, a tolerant kind of anger.

Antoinette sighed, her hand tightening over the now cool cup. She could warm it up, of course, but she felt no need for coffee now. Placing the cup on the side table, Antoinette moved to stand, plucking the photos from her lap.

She had not gotten far when the sound of the front door flying open and banging against the wall beside it shocked her back into her seat.

Her mother-in-law burst into the room a second later, cackling with delight, her robes streaming behind her and her black matronly cap untied and flopping tastelessly about her gaunt face. "Wait!" she shrieked gleefully, coming to sit beside Antoinette. "Wait until you hear the juicy bit of gossip my niece just divulged to me."

Antoinette winced as, once again, Walburga's high pitched cackle almost damaged her eardrums. "What juicy bit of gossip, Madam?" And which niece?

"The Potters!" _Cackle._

"The Potters?" Antoinette queried, cool.

Walburga was so excited by this piece of news that her eyes filled with tears of glee. Antoinette felt dread at the sight. "The Dark Lord wants to kill them!" she whispered reverently, while Antoinette felt her stomach drop. "They went into hiding a few days ago, but they've a Secret Keeper. Guess who it is?"

Antoinette suddenly knew.

"Sirius!" and off her mother-in-law went, cackling again.

Although Antoinette did not know what a Secret Keeper was, she could make an educated guess. The idea filled her with horror and fear. Fear for Sirius. Fear for the Potters. She thought of her little godson . . . Her breathing suddenly became very fast.

Walburga did not notice. "That means he's gone into hiding, too. That's why he's dumped you here! And I thought he was tired of you! _Ha!_ Well I say good riddance to him, the traitor . . ." She paused and looked Antoinette over shrewdly. "You're certain you aren't pregnant?"

Antoinette pursed her lips and nodded. Once.

"Can't the idiot do anything right?" Walburga sneered. "Well, he can't die yet until he's got you with child. A male one, preferably —"

"May I remind you," interjected Antoinette once she'd regained her composure, her voice brittle, cutting, shards of ice, "that Sirius is still my husband, and I will not allow you to speak about him that way in my presence. You may do so in your own time and in the company of those who care to listen to you. But not in front of me."

The elder Mrs Black now sat stiff, her eyes cold and cruel as she looked upon her daughter-in-law. It was more than likely she was remembering the incident with the master suite when Antoinette had first arrived. Antoinette, being the current Mrs Black, meant she now ranked above Walburga. Which meant that anything and everything belonging to Walburga that had once belonged to the previous Black women was now passed on to her, Antoinette — including the Master Bedroom. Walburga had moved her things without Antoinette having to tell her, but the French witch knew that she hadn't done it willingly and, in fact, resented Antoinette's status in the Black household. Apart from that Walburga Black did as she pleased. Antoinette allowed herself to be intimidated generally (the Doxy incident being a prime example), but matters concerning Sirius and Walburga's hatred of him she would not stand for. She had mentioned this to Walburga in countless instances over the week, every time she would start off on one of her rants against Sirius. It seemed she still had not learned.

"It amazes me that even after Sirius dumped you here like a dog to go and protect his blood traitor friends you can still speak of him as you do," was what she said now. "Your loyalty to your husband is admirable. A worthy trait for a Black to have. But in this case unfounded. It would do you better —" her voice dropped in tone, cold and hateful "— to show some loyalty to your new family instead. Sirius is nothing but a traitor."

"Sirius _is_ my new family. _You_ gave him to me. He is my husband and _your_ son."

Walburga grimaced at the reminder. "A fact I wish weren't so."

"Then you would not get your grandchild. And the Black line would end."

"True," she sneered. "If only Regulus were still alive. I would have had you marry him, instead. I wonder if loyalty to your spouse would still have held then." Her mother-in-law smirked, a shrewd glint in her eye. "Somehow I think not."

She stood and swept out of the room, leaving Antoinette shaking and cold.

xxxxxxxx

_October 31__st__, 1981 . . . _

James Potter waved his wand; clouds of coloured smoke puffed into the open air from out of the tip. Harry, laughing delightedly beside him on the sofa, tried to capture it in a tight little fist.

Lily entered the room a second later. "Dinner's ready, James."

"All right, love. But I think Harry needs a nappy change first," James grinned.

Lily tsked good-naturedly as James handed Harry over. Watching his wife and son walk out of the room, James stretched and yawned, throwing his wand on the sofa. Despite having to go into deep hiding to prevent the Dark Lord from finding and killing them, he was perhaps the happiest he had ever felt. Learning he might die at any time (learning his family might die at any time) had really opened his eyes about life, about his loved ones. It was so hard to believe that his little Harry was part of a prophecy. He couldn't even talk yet, for Merlin's sake! Now if only Harry would hurry up and say —

The front door burst open with a thunderous, magical explosion. James was up and running through the sitting room before he could even think about it, out the doors, to the main hallway, skidded — there!

A figure shrouded in dark robes, white skin . . . There could be no one else.

James knew he was going to die. He was under no delusions; he had left his wand on the sofa. And even if he had it he couldn't hope to win. Yet he was running on pure adrenalin now. Strangely sober. As if he existed apart from the world. Nothing mattered but holding Voldemort back, to give Lily and Harry a chance to escape. _Harry . . ._

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off —!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

And as James Potter stood, watching the bright green light arch towards him, he thought he finally heard the sweetest word in the world: "Dada!"

xxxxxxxxxx

_Hours later . . ._

The figure flew loudly over the roofs of the silent muggle village. If any inhabitants were to wake up and head outside at that exact moment they may have spotted a dark-haired man wearing a black dress sitting astride a flying motorcycle. If they could have seen his face, his eyes, they would have run back into their houses, scared out of their wits, for there was no lucidity in them.

The man did not care that he was breaking a hundred laws, and was about to break a hundred more. He did not care for anything — did not think of anything — except to find another man. A rat man. And . . . _talk_ to him.

The man knew that something had gone wrong with the rat, for the rat was not in his home where he was supposed to be. The man knew that he had to get to Godric's Hollow as quickly as possible, to confirm . . .

If any muggle living in the silent village was to look up at that exact moment they may have spotted the lucidity flooding back into the figure's eyes, along with something else: a wetness that dripped off the end of his face, lost among the unforgiving wind.

Much like the man's howling cry of grief . . .

xxxxxxxxxxx

_November 1__st__, 1981 . . ._

Antoinette awoke to a lengthy cackle, her mother-in-law bursting into her room and brandishing a late morning edition of the Daily Prophet under her nose.

"This is the third article, apparently. We missed out on the ones earlier. Narcissa sent it to me. Read it!" urged Walburga.

Apprehensive, drowsy, yet still curious as to why Walburga had disturbed her afternoon nap, Antoinette smoothed out the offered paper on her beige duvet . . . and stopped upon catching the title.

_**WIZARDING WORLD STILL CELEBRATING OVER DARK LORD'S DEFEAT: danger of exposure to muggles imminent!**_

She barely registered the bed shifting as Walburga sank down on it. "Is this real?"

"Oh quite!"

Antoinette's eyes flittered up quickly, assessing the situation, then dropped down again to hide the suspicion she knew was apparent. Something did not add up here. Why was Walburga so . . . _happy_ about this?

"You could not have read the entire article in three seconds," she spat, loose skin quivering under her jowl. "Go on, then! And hurry up about it. I want to read it again."

Still confused, Antoinette glanced down . . .

_Celebrations continue to run rampant throughout the wizarding community as of last night, when one-year-old Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in an almost impossible counterattack of the worst Unforgivable ever created: the Killing Curse._

_No one is able to find the reason as to how a little baby has survived the destruction of the worst Dark Arts' curse in existence when grown witches and wizards have not._

_Not even Harry Potter's own parents._

_In one of the most chilling displays in the entire expanse of the war, You-Know-Who himself crept stealthily into the Potter's home, turned his wand on James and Lily Potter, and finally on Harry Potter, when the spell backfired, destroying the Dark Lord and a portion of the house in the process._

_The-Boy-Who-Lived, as the public has now dubbed the littlest and only Potter, is rumoured to have a lighting-bolt shaped scar on his forehead as a remnant of the Killing Curse and his destruction of the Dark Lord. _

_The Ministry, who has up until this point remained close to stagnant on the situation, finally had something to say late this morning:_

"_Of course we're thrilled!" spat Bartemius Crouch, Ministry representative and Head Auror, upon being questioned. "It is a very unusual and unprecedented circumstance, but we won't look a gift horse in the mouth either. Death Eaters are still at large and it is in my opinion that they are equally as dangerous as the Dark Lord, perhaps even more so now because they have nothing left to loose. Their master is vanquished. They will get desperate. It would hardly surprise me if bodies suddenly start getting dumped on the Ministry's doorstep again. And all this celebrating . . . What happened last night was a miracle as well as a tragedy. Tragedy! People should show more respect."_

_The common wizard, however, would disagree: _

"_It _is_ a tragedy, no one's saying it isn't," stated an anonymous source. "But we have spent _eleven_ years living under the shadow of You-Know-Who. And now he's gone! This is a happy, happy day. I mean, don't we deserve a party?"_

_Some witches and wizards even opted for Halloween to be changed into Harry Potter Day but the Ministry of Magic have out-ruled them, saying that it would be disrespectful to the deceased parents of the The-Boy-Who-Lived._

"_Quite frankly I'm astonished that anyone would have even dared to bring it up. Our hearts go out to little Harry Potter who, as per the wishes of his parents, is going to be placed with his only living relatives. No further questions until the press conference in half an hour," said a blustering Minister Bagnold. _

_Needless to say the words of the Ministry have had little to no affect on the general public as magical firework displays are still bombarding the sky in Kent, and literally thousands of owls continue to fly over the country as witches and wizards share in the happy news. Obliviators have been dispatched to take care of any intercepting muggle news reporters, though a few seemed to have slipped under their noses. Rumours of out of control owl breeding and a 'knew-clear' testing facility in Kent have been discussed heavily on the muggle news, to major response._

_The Ministry, it seems, can do nothing about this._

"_Really, now. You can't expect us to Obliviate an entire _country_ of muggles," an irritable Ministry spokeswitch told the Prophet. "That just wouldn't be realistic. You-Know-Who is dead, finally, and I think we ought to try remembering that rather than focusing on the mistakes the public themselves made with their owls, fireworks and whatever else."_

_The spokeswitch also went on to add that any witch or wizard found to be in a muggle area today wearing wizarding clothes would be prosecuted, in accordance with Muggle/Wizard Relation Law 212._

_The International Confederation of Wizards gathered for a press conference a little later at the British Ministry, with press representatives and Ministry delegates from dozens of intercontinental countries present. After an hour long gruelling session of Who-Know-Who related questions _(see pg 3),_ Madam Bagnold issued this following request:_

"_The wizarding world has never been more in danger of exposure than it is right now. It would be sadly ironic, after the Dark Lord has finally been destroyed and many of his supporters disbanded, that we should now be exposed to the muggle world over careless and unnecessary use of magic and magical paraphernalia. I urge the wizarding public to _calm_ down. No one is stopping you from celebrating, but do it in private for Merlin's sake! No more fireworks, no more owls, and _certainly_ no performing magic in full view of the muggles. There just _aren't_ enough Obliviators!"_

_The Minster went on to further say . . ._

The parchment slid slowly from Antoinette's trembling fingers.

_So._ This was the reason.

Antoinette was in shock.

_Lily._

She could not think.

_James._

Could not move.

_Harry._

Could not dare to imagine just what this must be doing to Sirius.

_Oh God! . . ._ The room whirled back into sudden focus. The experience was jarring and she needed a moment to compose herself. _Sirius! He needs me. I need to go to him._ Antoinette was about to flip over the covers and do just that when she remembered . . . She could not. He was in hiding, and she would never find him. What a dreadful predicament!

Walburga's voice jolted her from her impending hyperventilation. "At least they've gone! Shame about the Potter boy, though, that he wasn't killed too. But you can't have everything."

"Mother," said Antoinette, voice soft.

_Blink._ "Yes?"

"Do you have any idea where Sirius might be?"

Cold black eyes blinked again before once full lips stretched in a cruel imitation of a smile. "Why? Do you _miss_ him? Want to make sure he's _all right_?"

"_Oui." _Antoinette felt an unnatural chill envelop her. Her mother-in-law was acting entirely too satisfied for her piece of mind. Something else was going on. Something other than the Potters' deaths.

"Well I don't know where he is. But I can guess," she smirked. Then started hacking uncontrollably with harsh, cough-like laughter.

Antoinette drew back, eyes wide and breathing fractured. Walburga was quite simply mad. That's all there was too it. She was living with a mad woman. Those cold black eyes held a hint of something, a glint of insanity preceded only by that which Walburga herself construed to be rational.

This revelation did not offer Antoinette comfort, and her fingers inched slowly beneath her pillow to where she kept her wand . . .

"Oh, she asks about Sirius, does she?" said Walburga finally, calming down some. Her stare narrowed. "You are either a very stupid girl, or a very foolish one for not knowing enough about magic. Don't make that face at me like you can't understand what I'm talking about!"

Antoinette jumped.

"Secret Keeper, girl. Do you even know what that means?"

Numb, Antoinette shook her head.

Walburga's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "The role of a Secret Keeper is to conceal a piece of information inside his or her own soul, only to be divulged at his or her own discretion. . ."

The dread in Antoinette's stomach grew as she listened.

"In Sirius's case, his task was to keep the whereabouts of the Potters a secret, a task in which he spectacularly failed." Walburga's tone was getting very lilting now. "The only way in which the Dark Lord could have found the Potters was if Sirius willingly gave him the information. He was the one who betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord. My son!"

For the first time Antoinette heard what could have been a smidgeon of pride in her mother-in-law's voice.

"Betrayed those mudblood-lovers like a good boy. They'll find out soon of course, and catch him, there's no help for that. Do you still wish to find to him now?"

Antoinette could not even register the question. Her mind had become numb, her senses hazy. The agony was bittersweet. The pain — beyond imagining. The betrayal . . . of the Potters. Of herself.

Herself.

Sirius was a Death Eater.

So good at acting, apparently, that he had even fooled his own mother until the appropriate moment. Fooled his own friends.

He was a murderer. Even worse: a man possessing of traits so despicable that in other circumstances she might have spat on him.

And she had loved him. Still loved him.

_Oh. My. God._

Darkness shrouded her like a cloud, deadening her vision.

A second afterwards Antoinette Black flopped down rather ungracefully onto her pillow, leaving her mother-in-law blinking in puzzlement next to her prone figure.

xxxxxxx

The rest of that day past slowly for Antoinette who, after having been forced awake by Walburga shoving a vial of foul smelling salts under her nose, spent the time wallowing in grief and misery. And betrayal. No, she could not forget that.

The despicable swine!

Despite being miserable and betrayed, Antoinette was also _furious_! For half a day she paced in the little side garden, even Kreacher growing wary of her whispered mutterings and periodic little shrieks. _Never_ had she so lost her composure. _Never_ had she been this animated before in her life. Antoinette usually dealt with unpleasantness by keeping it inside herself. _Never_ did she lash out physically and in such an unladylike and angry display. And she wasn't even sure what she was most furious about — that she still loved Sirius, or that he had pretended to care for her, or that he had betrayed his best friends — _oooooh!_

Antoinette mourned only slightly for Lily and James. She had not known them very well, after all, but the fact that she _had_ met them, spoken to them, seemed to be enough to unleash the floodgates for a time. Such young, promising lives . . . it did not seem fair at all. No, but what she really sobbed over was Harry. Harry and Sirius. Harry, who would never know his parents, and Sirius, who would have to go to Azkaban now —

Antoinette paused in her pacing, blinked, and almost slapped herself. _Was she INSANE?!_ She began to pace again, this time more hurriedly. _Mon Dieu_, why did she think of that? Why should she care that Sirius went to Azkaban? Why should that hurt her? It was more than he deserved as far as Antoinette was concerned.

That night she slept not a wink. Instead she gorged herself on all the chocolates Kreacher could find, tuning into wizarding wireless when the chocolates satisfied her no longer. But after a half hour of listening to reports of You-Know-Who's death and just how, precisely, he had accomplished the Potter murders — popular theories included the all common killing curse to everything as ridiculous as singing them to death — Antoinette could not stomach anymore, and blasted her late Father-in-law's wireless with a well-placed _Reducto_.

At that exact second Walburga banged into the room, shrieked, then ducked as bits of radio hurtled past her head, out the door, to _thwunk_ into the wall opposite like little tiny arrows.

"What in Merlin's Beard . . ." she began, straightening her nightcap.

Antoinette covered her mouth in horror. "_Pardon moi, Madame._ I did not know you would be there."

But Walburga surprised her by flapping a negligent hand. "Never mind that now, girl. I have some important information that could not wait until the morning: they've captured Sirius!"

"_What?"_

Walburt nodded at Antoinette's shocked face. "Not even half an hour ago, Narcissa told me. She wrote me a letter, see, but that's not the worst part."

"That she wrote you a letter?" Antoinette said, her mind still blank.

"No, you stupid girl!" Walburga sneered, two red blotches visible on her cheekbones. "I mean that the Ministry is after _you_ now."

Antoinette stared, uncomprehending.

Walburga tsked impatiently. "They are after you! Likely because the buffoons think you have some information regarding other Death Eaters."

"But why would I —"

"You're Sirius's wife; that is why! Use some common sense."

Antoinette sat slowly in the seat before her vanity. This, to happen now, on top of everything else . . . She looked up at her mother-in-law, eyes glistening with the sting of impending tears. "But how can Narcissa be privy to the Ministry's doings? Perhaps she was wrong, _oui_?"

"You stupid, foolish girl!" Walburga loomed over her, spit flying from her mouth. "Do you know nothing about anything? It is not Narcissa who is privy but her husband! Does nothing penetrate that impeccably beautiful skull of yours?!"

"But I did nothing. I am innocent. They cannot —"

"Oh yes they very much can. It's that Bartemius Crouch — he's obsessed with finding Death Eaters and doesn't care how he goes about doing it and who he . . . _damages_ . . . in the process. He as rigid as they come: old blood to the bone. Reputation is the only thing that matters to him. You, my dear, he shan't care one jot about."

Tears stained her cheeks. "But what do I do?" she sobbed.

Walburga stared at her coldly. "Grow some backbone, child, and cease that relentless _leaking_! They _cannot_ reach you here. This house is unplottable."

"Am I to spend the rest of my life in hiding?" Her voice seemed a trembling whisper and Antoinette hated herself for it.

"You can hand yourself in when the furore dies down. They will be less inclined to torture you then."

Her hand flew to her throat. "Torture?"

"Oh, yes," Walburga smirked at Antoinette's trembling. "They're not above that, you know. Only they call it 'questioning' to make themselves seem more humane."

"_Barbarians_," she choked out. "This whole country is full of barbarians. As are _you_, as is your _son_!"

A completely revolting giggle resonated through the room and Antoinette shrank down at the sound, and at the crazed glint in the eyes of the woman before her. "Funny you should mention that, you know, because you will really begin to believe it after hearing what I have to tell you."

Her heart thudded so fast and hard that Antoinette thought, for one insane moment, that she was having a heart attack. "What do you have to tell me?"

"Do you think they caught Sirius because he was negligent? Oh no, my son is far too wily for those Ministry fools." Walburga's voice: a reverent whisper in the still room. "They caught him because he went mad with revenge. The Potter boy had killed the Dark Lord, and Sirius wanted to know how. Do you know what he did?"

Antoinette could not believe the enjoyment this woman was experiencing now. "No."

"He killed the Potters' friend, that Pettigrew boy, and twelve muggles as well. Blew the whole street up with a killing curse rivalling any Dark Lord's."

Antoinette choked on a sob.

Walburga nodded as though she had said something agreeable. "Yes, exactly. There was a lot of sobbing, a lot of tears, a lot of dead bodies. Dead muggles. Bits everywhere. Buildings demolished. Sirius laughing. They carted him straight to Azkaban, where he is already probably going mad. But I couldn't be prouder of him. For once in his life he followed family tradition. Think about that, Antoinette: Tradition! You would do well to follow his example."

Antoinette had already collapsed into the chair and did not even see Walburga leave the room. She felt like she was trapped in her own mind, unable to believe the horrors, the atrocities, that Sirius was capable of. The love she felt for him shrivelled right then, and she let it die. Antoinette could never love a mass murderer, a betrayer . . . she was disgusted with herself for ever entertaining the feeling to begin with. Well, no more! Today she had learned a hard lesson, one that she would keep in her heart for the rest of her life to remind her.

Better to never trust anyone.

Better to be alone than to be betrayed.

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The only window sat so high up that only by standing on someone else's shoulders, and if that someone were to stand on another person's shoulders, would he see the sky. The fact that there was no one else in the room was beside the point. He would not have even noticed the window at all but for the lack of something to concentrate on — anything to take his mind off of the ever-present Dementors.

He had already screamed a couple of times — or it could have been more, he wasn't entirely sure how much time had past since he'd been thrown in his little cell. All he knew was that it had to be more than a couple of weeks at least. Keeping track of the days consisted of him being lucid enough to do so, and half the time he felt exactly the opposite. That he couldn't see the sky, and that it always looked like night anyway, made it even harder to tell the passing of days.

And if there was a torch in Azkaban it was kept well hidden.

In the couple of weeks that he had been here Sirius had not seen a single living soul, had not even seen the Dementors when they unlocked his heavy cell door and brought food, because he refused to look at their vileness. Sometimes they lingered; on this or that side of the door. Every time was torture, for he never could remember himself or much of anything afterwards.

The cold; it was constant. His heart felt like a thin layer of frostbite surrounded it. It froze his blood, seeped into the very marrow of his bones.

Like the distant screams.

Sirius was a high security prisoner, and there weren't a lot of other prisoners near him. No others that had committed crimes on the level he'd been charged with. No others distinguished enough to be separated from their Death Eater friends — yet. There would be, Sirius knew, others like him. Other murderers . . . only he wasn't a murderer. He _was_ a killer, he fully admitted that to himself, but he was an accidental one.

_James. Lily. His fault. All his fault. Dead now for over two wee—_

He lay in a well.

That's what it felt like to him, at least. Boxed in. Sirius had only enough room to lie down in any direction. The ceiling was high but the walls were narrow. No cot to sleep on, and only a bucket to empty his bowels. This the Dementors, too, exchanged once a week or every other for a clean one . . . A fleeting something past through Sirius's head, then, a knowledge of something; like he should be remembering something. Hmm, no matter. It could hardly be important.

What could ever be important to him anymore?

Anything and all that he had ever known or loved was beyond his reach now: _Lily and James._

_Remus._

_Harry . . ._

_Antoinette._

He sat up quickly, groaning at the ache in his joints. _By Merlin, _he had forgotten all about her! His wife, and he had forgotten her! He wondered if she hated him. If, like the rest of the wizarding world, she despised him completely.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. _Yes. Yes. Yes_. YES. YES. YES. _YEEESSSS!_

He laughed; a short, deep bark in the grimy cell that echoed through the prison, mingling with other laughs. Other screams.

Merlin, he _was_ mad.

Or getting there at any rate.

At least he was sane enough to realise he was going mad. But was that a sign of madness, or sanity?

He giggled.

Too much! It was too much. It looked like it was time to change back into Padfoot. He could not stand it anymore.

The transformation was swift and painless and Sirius felt instant relief flooding his limbs, holding back some of the cold. Reason trickled back in, also, and Sirius was so pathetically grateful that he started crying. Silent tears that made the fur on his face damp.

_Ah, bliss._

The Dementor that had been lingering outside his door glided away now that it could soak up minimal nourishment, content in the knowledge that the prisoner in the cell was loosing his mind.

Sirius gasped in relief. The pain in his head, brought on with the cold of the Dementors, subsided greatly. He could finally think. Could finally _feel_ something other than despair.

_I wonder what day it is._

He absently scratched at his ear, back paw becoming blurrier with every second. That was bliss too, for Sirius now owned nits — or some sort of bug. Whatever bug had made its home in his hair was itchy. The sweet sort of itchy that only got sweeter the more you scratched, but was bad for you because of potential infections, oozy pus, or bleeding. Luck was with him because he had yet to acquire any of the above, though he was sure that blood was inevitable sooner or later if kept going at it.

Whimpering softly, he forced his paw to stop.

It was agony and relief all at once.

Groaning, he placed his heavy head on his large paws and settled in to sleep for the day. It would be healthier for him — mentally — to stay as a dog and not change into human form at all. But he always became nervous when the Dementors unlocked his door and brought him food every day, paranoid that they would somehow sense him as Padfoot. He was also paranoid about the families that visited prisoners every now and then, that they would peer into his cell through the little four bar window at the top of his door and see a dog.

He could not afford to be found out now.

He was innocent and he hadn't had a trial. The Ministry would note this injustice sooner or later and offer him one. Thus, he had to maintain his sanity. For his sake. For Harry's sake. For the sake of the rat he would hunt down when they pardoned him.

And they _would_ pardon him. The truth would become known. Remus would vouch for him. Bathilda would vouch for him. The Order would. Dumbledore wou —

Dumbledore.

A forgotten thought, realisation, tugged at his memory.

_My God._

He transformed back with a pop and began pacing as much as he was able.

Dumbledore _wouldn't_ vouch for him! Dumbledore would sooner see him rot in here than vouch for him. James and Lily had told Dumbledore that Sirius was their Secret Keeper, and Sirius had actually encouraged that lie.

Dumbledore would never vouch for him because he had, what he believed, to be actual proof of Sirius's guilt from out of the mouths of the Potters themselves. A quick Pensieve memory to anyone who was dumb enough to question him would offer all the evidential proof the wizengamot needed. If only . . . if only Sirius could somehow get Dumbledore to hear him out he was positive the headmaster would believe him. He gave lots of people second chances, even first chances; always thought good of almost everyone. Remus and Hagrid were living proof of his tendency towards benevolence and generosity . . . but all this depended on Sirius actually being allowed to speak to Dumbledore in the first place.

And therein lay his problem.

No one — _no one!_ — would ever let him anywhere near Albus Dumbledore, so it was all fruitless. And if Dumbledore didn't vouch for him . . . He halted suddenly, realisation dawning.

None of them would.

Dumbledore's word was law to every sentient creature in the wizarding world who were able to think for themselves. If Dumbledore said that Sirius Black was guilty than he was bloody well guilty thank you very much.

_Oh God, oh Merlin, oh Merlin's great bloody balls tied up in a sack!_

_I'm never going to leave. I'm stuck here forever._

_Until I die._

Whatever hope Sirius had had left faded. Despair settled in its place instead, the growing dread and unhappiness almost more than he could stand.

Back to the wall, he slid slowly down, bottom plonking on the grimy stone floor.

He was innocent; but that didn't matter anymore than it mattered that Pettigrew was alive, because Sirius was in Azkaban.

And he was never getting out.

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Having come to this despairing realisation, Sirius, wallowing in dungeon filth, started to sob. Great hacking sobs that sounded as if he were choking, as if he would never be able to breathe again. And he tried to stop himself, he really did, but he was literally, physically, unable to and that just made him sob even more.

It was just so unfair. _Why?_ How could this have happened to him? How could it have gone so wrong so quickly? Why hadn't he known about Peter? Why had he automatically assumed something else?

"Remus," he choked out. "Remus, I'm so sorry, my friend."

_For thinking the worst of you._

But Remus wasn't his friend now. Sirius had no friends. Not anymore.

Before Sirius could start sobbing again at the fresh wave of despair that intruded, the lock on his door clicked open, the latched rattled.

He sat up, on guard.

This was odd. The Dementors had given him food that morning already and weren't likely to come into his cell again until tomorrow.

The door swung open and a woman entered.

Sirius was shocked. Not because of her gender, but because she was human. No humans came to Azkaban unless they were prisoners, visitors, or . . .

Sirius first saw the heeled foot that was concealed quickly by the swinging of magenta robes. The tip of her wand was cast in a bright _Lumos_ and he cried out as the bright light met his eyes. _Who is it? Who is it?!_

"Black," said a familiar voice.

"Minister," Sirius greeted, shocked. What in the world . . .?

"I'm here for my annual visit, Black, to make sure that everything is as it should be, that I perform my duty. Normally I don't enter occupied cells, but I thought I'd make an exception for the man who betrayed his best friends to the Dark Lord, who murdered thirteen people with a single curse and blew up an entire muggle street. It's funny; you don't look all that dangerous. Rather pathetic actually."

The silence was almost suffocating but Sirius let the Minister have her little moment. It wasn't like he cared; he knew what people thought of him now and had had a long time to get used to it.

"I'm here to personally supervise your photography session, Black. I'd thought I'd make the effort, seeing as how you're so distinguished nowadays."

Only then did Sirius notice the two men standing behind the Minister, one of whom carted a raised platform with a box on top: a camera. "Photography session?" he queried.

"Every prisoner must get their photo taken, as a matter of Ministry record."

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Madam," said Sirius, voice deep, "but you've been misinformed. I've _had_ my photo taken when I was first dumped in this charming little cell."

"I know," she sneered, "but by ordinance of the wizengamot any prisoner must be photographed annually for security purposes — if, in the unlikely event one of you were to escape, we will have a recent picture of the felon."

But all Sirius could think to say was, "Annually?" very softly.

She blinked. "That is what I just said."

"But, but that's impossible," Sirius tried to get up and the Minister and her two companions jumped back, startled, wands pointing straight at him.

"Don't move, Black!"

Sirius froze. "I wasn't aware that I'd done so. And I've only been here for a few weeks. Why is the Ministry back so soon?"

Their wands lowered until Sirius could see their smirks. "You really believe that, don't you? How wonderful. Gentlemen?"

His heart thudded in his temples, and Sirius did not even notice when the two men came into the cramped cell, held him upright, and the flash of light that followed. He knew nothing except that word: annually.

Had he been in Azkaban for a year? It looked as though . . . yes. Yes. He'd been so out of it that his days of lucidity only added up to about two weeks.

He felt like crying all over again.

No more, no more, damn the consequences. He would now have to remain as Padfoot all the time . . .

"We also must monitor your health," the Minister's voice penetrated his daze. "If you're suffering from an illness we shall cure you. We wouldn't wand you to die when your sentence clearly states life in Azkaban where you're supposed to suffer greatly for your transgressions."

"Sentence?" Sirius snarled. "I wasn't aware that I'd even had a trial let alone a sentencing."

Madam Bagnold scoffed, flapping a hand. "As if there would be any doubt of your guilt. Even your wife believes you guilty, and she ought to know shouldn't she?"

Sirius had become very, very still, gaze focused on the Minster. "Toni? What does —?" He sat up again, revelling in their startled jumps, but grunting when an invisible force pushed him to the ground. "If you lot tortured her like you did me . . . If you used the _Imperius Curse_ on her . . ." he warned.

"You'll what? Spit?" The Minister laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Black, we only question Death Eaters in that fashion, and only if we think they are withholding information. Although, what good did it do us when _you_ fought off the effects using your dark magic. Your Lord taught you well."

"You better not have touched a single hair on her —"

"Mrs Black is going to work for me soon, you know. Lovely girl. Had a hard time finding her after your arrest. We wanted her in for questioning —"

"She had nothing to do with —!"

"Yes, yes, we know all that! In fact, we were rather charmed by her. I offered her a job on the spot after she turned herself in last month. That's how long we've been looking for her, but Grimmauld Place is unplottable. I don't think she even knew that we were looking for her until the very end — at which point she came straight to the Ministry. Very honour-oriented girl you're married to. Pity her piety didn't pass onto you."

Sirius said nothing.

He let the Minister gloat, let her companions snigger at her words, at his misfortune. Nothing registered except Antoinette's fate.

She thought him guilty. She hated him. Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't thought it before. But it was different to actually _know_ something was true than to _think_ something was true.

His heart hurt. He loved her.

And she despised him.

"I doubt I shall meet you again, Black. So," the Minister smiled, "have a good life in Azkaban. Think positive."

They all three laughed as they left his cell.

Sirius didn't care. He cared about nothing. Their words meant nothing. He _was_ innocent. The Dementors could never take that away from him. They hadn't been able to in the year he'd spent here already, and they never would.

He had that, at least, in a world where he didn't exist anymore.

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	15. The Passing of Years Part One

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: Updates for this story should come quicker now, because I haven't got as many to finish anymore. I also have to thank all of my reviewers, and apologise once again for the long wait. I especially want to thank one new reviewer, who was so diligent that she reviewed every chapter, from the prologue to chapter thirteen.

Hope you enjoy.

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**Chapter Fourteen: The Passing of Years (Part 1)**

Antoinette Black sat stiffly before the large desk in the well-organised office, her hands embracing a role of parchment, her ears listening to the faint sound of footsteps approaching. The desk, positioned as the room's focal point, was entirely too meticulous — in other words it suited Antoinette's taste for the fastidious just fine. The room, bare of all necessities except for the usual, was clinical. Not one family photo lined the desk, and the walls were so barren that a more passionate person would be tempted to stand up and draw something with the quill placed temptingly in the inkpot: the only objects, besides a sheaf of parchment, located on the desk. The rest of the space was just as barren as the walls. If she hadn't known that this room was the office of the Head for the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Antoinette would have thought that she'd entered St Mungo's.

Her foot tapped an impossible rhythm on the polished marble floor, the only outward sign of its owner's nervous agitation.

It would not be long now, perhaps ten seconds. The footsteps were growing steadily louder, along with the beat of her heart. But, unexpectedly, they now halted, as did her unfortunate organ, before remembering its duty and starting up again, hitched-like. A murmur of voices, too faint to make out even an occasional word, came, muffled, through the door.

_Drat the man! What can possibly be taking so long? _

Barkwith, the Head's personal assistant, was deaf, senile, and so old that he should have died long ago, never mind actually retiring. He was the Ministry's oldest employee and small gas expulsions propelled him onwards every time he walked. Or should that be_ every time he attempted to walk_. Barkwith could only manage, at his best, a sort of crouched shuffle that everyone did _their_ best to stay well away from or risk their noses being exposed to the smells of sour egg, sour cabbage, and sour just-about-anything-the-old- man-could think-to-eat, quite honestly.

Which was why Antoinette had a difficult time believing the Head of Department had anything feasible to impart to old Barkwith. More likely Barkwith had called for his attention instead. The voices grew a little louder now, and she strained her ears, determined to hear something other than Barkwith's croak of a voice.

" . . . resignation is a little untidy, Barkwith: it looks to me as though you have written it over your shopping list."

"_croak, croak, _hadn't realised,_ mimble, mumble_, it now, sir?"

A sigh. "Never mind. It should do." There was a crackling of parchment as the Head of Department folded and placed it inside his robe pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me — Mrs Black awaits my attention."

"_croak, mumble."_

"Thank you, but no. Your tooth fell in last time and I don't believe my pharynx can risk a repeat episode."

The door clicked open.

The man who entered the room, closed the door, and walked to sit behind the desk with a curt "Mrs Black, I apologise for the wait" was not what one would expect of a typical British pureblood wizard over forty-five; they, more often than not, tended to look as if they had never heard of a comb. This one had the appearance of someone who had not only heard of a comb, but also bathing, shampoo, hair gel, and shaving charms. His robes were immaculate, as was his hair: stiff, black, and proper. His toothbrush moustache could not have been any trimmer. And, Antoinette noticed as she looked towards his clasped hands, his manicured fingernails were all cut to precisely the same length.

This was not a person to be intimidated easily. Nor should Antoinette want to, considering he was just about to give her a career. And he would. She would make sure of it.

"Mr Crouch, that is perfectly all right." She smiled her sweetest smile, despite knowing it would have no affect on the man opposite. He was a person not intimidated by beauty. Not because, like a certain forgotten convict, he was beautiful himself (hardly), but because he simply did not care for such superficial things. "And may I extend my sincere regrets on behalf of your wife. Millicent always spoke of her with such affection, I feel as if I knew her intimately."

If it were possible, the man became even stiffer. "Thank you. She is greatly missed."

Antoinette was momentarily startled by the coldness in his voice and the quickness of his response. _Had he not love his wife?_

"I offer my own condolences in return," he said.

Composed, cool, she nodded.

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" He threw a short glance at her hair, his lip curling. In approval, she knew, because she'd told Kreacher to make her chignon extra tight this time.

Oh yes, Antoinette had done her homework.

She had asked, observed, and then purchased. She'd made sure to wear her most blandest, yet professional robes; dark navy blue with a prim collar clipped all the way about her neck. Her shoes, while still high, were now toe-squared and polished so much that they resembled Bartemius Crouch's own. Which was what she had been going for. She might now look like a strict school mistress, but sacrifices must be made for one's greater good, mustn't they?

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

Crouch cleared his throat and gestured for her to hand over her parchment. A mere formality, since he knew everything there was to know about her already, but Antoinette handed it over without hesitation.

He unrolled the parchment, black, dulled eyes scanning quickly, before they shot to hers. "You've come from the Floo regulatory department, have you? Where you have worked for the last year. Replaced Reginald Quiggly as Junior Secretary before making your way up."

"That is correct."

"And what makes you think you are qualified for the position of my personal assistant?"

The man had a rather pompous view of himself. Not that that was a surprise. Still, she'd heard he'd deflated a bit since his son was sent to Azkaban a year ago. Apparently, even with his wife's recent death, he had become yet more severe, if such a thing were possible. It was as if he wanted to make up his son's disgrace by acting the perfect, pompously rigid pureblood. So, Antoinette gave him the answer he wanted, acting even more rigid than he, making sure to emphasise her status in society and the skills she'd learned on behalf of that status. Crouch was nothing if not purist. He could spout all he wanted about hating Death Eaters, but he himself retained entirely 'pure' personnel, and that, ultimately, was what would acquire her Barkwith's position.

Her beauty would help also, of course. Crouch was shrewd enough to recognise the advantage it could bring him. As an employee in the field of international magical affairs she needed to represent her country if the occasion called for her to travel abroad. Old Barkwith epitomised the very worst of traditionalist wizarding Britain — dirty, smelly, old. They needed someone younger, prettier, more . . . ah . . . _fresh_. This meeting, also, was a mere formality. Crouch couldn't afford not to hire her for all previous reasons, but there was one other, more important one: Antoinette was a friend to the Minister.

Having to spend ten months in Grimmauld Place because Crouch himself wanted her in for questioning had changed her. Locked in the house, seeming, at times, as much a prison as Azkaban, irrevocably altered something inside of her that she hadn't thought could be altered: her persona. That which had made her Antoinette. She'd had a lot of time to think, to contemplate, to muse on her life and had found it wanting. The naïve girl, all too ready and willing to believe anything her hus – anyone told her, was gone. In her place was left a shell. Not cold, certainly, nor hard, just a shell with nothing in it. She'd vowed never to feel anymore. She would never let anyone walk over her again, never be so gullible again. And if she needed to sleaze and weasel and go so low as to use her blood status and looks to gain even more prestigious employment, she would.

"You certainly have impressive _recommendations_," said Crouch, after she had finished exemplifying her better qualities. Millicent had already spoken to him, then. "But there is also the matter of your age to consider. You are very young. Twenty. I have never hired anyone that young before."

"Bertha Jorkins is young."

"Bertha Jorkins is not my personal assistant!"

"Meaning I am?"

"Mrs _Black." _

There could be no mistaking the emphasis he put on her name, and Antoinette inwardly winced. That name had caused her more than a few problems over the years, and she had expected the issue to crop up in the meeting, but not so soon.

Crouch tapped the edge of his desk in an important sort of way. "The Minister's favour can only carry you so far."

"I apologise, sir, I was out of line." More like she had _crossed the line_, but it had to be done. She needed to show some initiative after all. She couldn't remain passive when the very position she was applying for required anything but. Crouch would appreciate her initiative, but due to his managerial responsibility and his tendency towards overly pompous rigidness for following rules, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of showing it.

He sighed now, surprising her. Quickly, he rolled up the parchment and put it in the drawer of his desk before clasping his hands. "I know it is difficult for you, Mrs Black. I cannot imagine what you went through when that husband of yours — well, you'll be pleased to know that I, personally, questioned him before the Dementors took him."

Her breath hitched imperceptibly. "Of course."

"He resisted, of course — dark magic he'd learned at his Lord's knee, no doubt." Crouch's eyes glazed over a little as he reminisced. "He resisted our attempts at Cruciatus and Imperius, and we all know Occlumency can block Veritaserum to an extent, but there are other ways, darker ways, to block it completely."

Antoinette felt her heart jump into her throat so that she almost choked on it. She had never heard this before, and until that moment she'd never realised just how much she'd wanted to. "If you please, sir, just what did he resist?"

Crouch's eyes narrowed on hers. "That is confidential Ministry information. Of course I would never think of telling you, no matter how close you are to the situation." He spoke with the air of someone trying to convince her he'd never broken a rule in his life and wasn't about to start now. "Besides, I wouldn't want to cause you more grief. Undoubtedly you suffered the most for his betrayal."

"Yes." Her face: she made sure to lower it, to lower her eyes in a show of remorse. She knew she looked lovely in her shield of sadness. Beautifully cold.

"Forgive me, Mrs Black, I seemed to have instigated a delicate subject." He didn't look sorry at all, but Antoinette played her part.

"These two years have passed almost too quickly." She made sure to add just the right amount of wobbly inflection in her tone: one that suggested she was trying to be brave about the whole thing, but underneath really wasn't.

"Please accept my apologies, Madam."

"Of course, sir. You weren't to know I still feel as I do." She paused. "Have you come to a decision?"

He smiled thinly. "We both know a decision had been reached before I even stepped into this room."

"The Minster herself vouches for me, Mr Crouch. Surely there can be no greater praise?"

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm delaying the inevitable, then?"

"One does tend to think it a little odd." She leant forward, gaze focused. It was time to outline some things. All this bandying about was getting on her nerves. "In addition to Millicent's recommendation, I am also a highly accomplished witch. I can speak three languages — nowhere near to what you can, but certainly more than anyone else in this department — and this particular position requires the employ of a multi-lingual personage. I finished Beaubatons with the equivalent of ten of your NEWTS, specialising specifically in magical politics. And lastly, I come in a very pretty package, and we both know, however shallow it may sound, that image — exclusively, the image of the British Ministry of Magic in contrast with other international Ministries — is an important factor in the evolution of this department.

"What is it, precisely, that you do not approve of, Mr Crouch?"

"But you just touched on it yourself, Mrs Black," said Crouch, obviously relishing her confusion. "British Image. You are not British."

She blinked. This was his objection? Something this small, while she had been preparing herself over and over for all those obvious criticisms. She never would have expected . . . "I am English."

"By marriage only. And I wouldn't call that very viable, either." He sneered.

"But —"

"You also have somewhat of an accent."

The bone of her knuckles stood out, white, against her skin with how hard she squeezed her fist. As luck would have it, it had remained in her lap for the entire interview. "Do you truly have a problem? I am young still. It shall thin out eventually. I _can_ get rid of it."

"See that you do."

Crouch had agreed.

Her relief was so great that it took her a moment to realise she'd stopped breathing. She hadn't known she'd been so nervous. Drawing an imperceptible, tiny gasp, Antoinette smiled at the man opposite. Her new employer. Smoothing out her robes, she stood. "Thank you, sir, you shan't be disappointed."

"I know I won't be."

The words were ominous enough that they gave her a momentary pause. But she extended her hand nonetheless. Crouch shook it firmly and showed her out.

"I expect you at that desk in two weeks," he announced once they'd stepped through the threshold. Barkwith's desk, adjacent to Crouch's office, was currently unoccupied. Her new boss raised a supercilious brow at the sight, but didn't comment; Barkwith's absence being a common occurrence.

Antoinette took it upon herself to greet all of her new colleagues, staying well away from the dazed demeanour of one Bertha Jorkins, who had recently been transferred from some other department, before finally Apparating home.

"Kreacher!"

A faint _pop_ signalled the arrival of her one and only house-elf. The creature stood, hunched, in the middle of her drawing room, large batwing ears trembling a little at the tips. His loincloth, recently purchased under Antoinette's insistence, was now tucked snugly about his hips. "Kreacher is here, Mistress," he intoned. "Kreacher has just been cleaning."

Antoinette looked about the room with an elegantly raised brow, her sharp eyes spotting something that contradicted the elf's statement. "Then why is my cup still on the coffee table?"

"Kreacher has been cleaning Grimmauld Place, Mistress."

Antoinette stiffened. The contrived audacity — the _utter_ contrived audacity — of this elf wasn't to be born!

"I know you miss Walburga." _Missed your daily slap, more like._ Antoinette thought of the insinuations of what that might allude to, and shuddered. Delicately. "She has only been gone for two weeks, after all, so I will allow you some leniency in what you choose to say and what you choose to do, due to your obvious grief. But do not _dare_ to insult my memory. I ordered you to stay here."

The elf bowed low. "Kreacher begs for Mistress to forgive him, but Kreacher's other mistress ordered Kreacher to stay in Grimmauld Place."

"Kreacher's other mistress is _dead_. Your home now is the other Black house. Her brother's house. Alphard's house. Now Siri – now _my_ house. You will do as _I_ order, thank you, and _not_ listen to the contrivances of a portrait whose likeness is now buried in the family crypt."

"Kreacher doesn't understand why Mistress left Grimmauld Place just as Kreacher's other Mistress die —"

"Kreacher will bite his tongue!" she hissed.

Kreacher bit his tongue.

Then howled.

"Stop that at once!"

Kreacher stopped, large eyes quivering.

"Don't pretend as though you didn't know I spoke figuratively." She forced her tone to soften. "I am not Walburga, Kreacher. You know this. We have spent two years living together. I shall not treat you as Walburga treated you, nor should you expect me to. There are no hidden meanings in my words, and you shan't be punished for not deciphering said supposed hidden meanings."

Kreacher started murmuring under his breath, gaze positioned on a knob of wood sticking out of the floor. "Kreacher misses his old den in the kitchen cupboard, oh yes, with all of Master Regulus's things."

"Then I give you permission to retrieve Regulus's possessions. But you are to come straight back," she said.

The elf's gaze shot up and shone with reverence, twig-like fingers clasping together at his chest. "Young Mistress is too good to Kreacher."

"Young Mistress cannot live without Kreacher," she said, tone plain. It was true. She couldn't. She'd never been able to overcome her abhorrence for housework. And now that there was no husband to please she had become even more disinclined to pick up a cleaning charm or two. _Let Kreacher take care of it,_ she had often thought, as he was so disposed.

Later at the dining table, her supper untouched, palms flat on either side of her plate, Antoinette stared straight ahead into nothing.

The silence was loud. Too loud. The only sound penetrating the stillness —

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Her stare moved to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

Then moved back.

She picked up her spoon.

She ate her soup.

After Walburga had passed away a fortnight ago the blonde witch had wasted no time moving out of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Two years spent in that misery, that – that _prison_ with her mother-in-law shrieking in her ear every time something screwed with her view of the world (which was always) had been quite enough. More than enough. But she hadn't counted . . . she hadn't thought . . .

_Clink._

Her spoon had fallen in the bowl. _Dull silver through yellow liquid._

Here. There were so many — pieces. Broken pieces. Broken memories.

_Sirius._

Antoinette closed her eyes tight. She hadn't so much as thought his name in two years, but today — _ah, today_ — it seemed she could not get rid of his image. First with Crouch practically forcing his memory on her, and now . . . But nothing could ever force her, voluntarily, into Grimmauld Place. Even the recollection of her murderous husband's face wasn't enough to make her go back there. It was just – just . . .

She sighed.

Alphard's old house had been _their_ home. Their only home. Sirius and Toni's.

They had shared it together for a few weeks at least, imprinting their personality on its walls, and now she was going to have to forget about Sirius all over again. Forget about _them_ all over again. It had taken _months_ last time. The ache in her heart was duller this time, but that there was an ache at all made her furious with herself. Who did she think she was, allowing herself to become so angry? So irritated? Allowing Sirius to _win_? Again? Had she not been furious enough? Had she not gone through all of this?

Suddenly she was weeping.

She dared not go into the garden.

xxxxxxxx

"Cousin Toni!"

The little bundle of blue silk robes and platinum-fine hair launched itself at Antoinette's waist, enthusiastic arms embracing her tight. A rosy-cheeked face grinned up at her, exposing a missing tooth.

"You came!" Draco gasped.

"Where else would I be on my favourite cousin's special day?" she questioned, smoothing back his locks and ignoring the grimace Narcissa tried not very hard to conceal over her son's shoulder. "Happy sixth birthday, mon petite."

"How many prethents did you buy me?" Draco demanded, lisping slightly.

When Antoinette pursed her lips, Draco seemed to shrink a little. "Just the one, as always. Wouldn't do to spoil you, now, would it?" _Although, it might be too late._

She reached into her robe pocket and presented a box wrapped in dark purple paper. Draco visibly deflated. "It's ever so small," he drawled, eyeing it beadily.

"Well, if you don't want it —"

A little hand wriggled up between hers and snatched it out of her grasp before she could get to pocketing it. "Don't be silly, of course I want it!"

"What do we say, Draco?" Narcissa's waspish voice drifted over to them from the summerhouse.

Striking grey eyes beamed up at her all the while a tiny aristocratic nose rose high — an action a mere six-year-old should not have been acquainted with. "Thank you."

But Antoinette's breath had caught in her throat, as it always did when she stared too long at Draco.

The resemblance to Sirius was striking. Some features were similar: the cheekbones for instance. But the eyes . . . oh, the eyes were exactly the same. The same colour, the same shape. That same elusive grey. The grey that looked like dark smoke when he was feeling particularly high emotions, but at other times resembled polished silver. Draco seemed to grow more into that look every year.

Maybe that was why she only came to Malfoy Manor twice annually. Whether to convince herself she wasn't bothered by the reason, or because of it, she had yet to find out.

Her new family Antoinette barely tolerated, preferring to keep away from most of the maliciousness. At first, with reluctance, she'd accepted Narcissa's invitation; along with a puffed up Walburga she'd put in an appearance at Draco's second birthday party. From then on she'd come regularly twice a year: once for Christmas and once for her cousin's birthday. Little Draco grew over the years from a baby-faced toddler to a snooty rapscallion who absolutely adored Antoinette, much to his parents' tight-lipped disproval. A Malfoy was not permitted to adore anyone, let alone advertise that idolisation by acting the proverbial 'commoner': pouring Antoinette her coffee when she took brunch in the gardens with Narcissa, allowing himself to be embraced and even, when he was feeling particularly exuberant — as he'd been just now — instigating the show of affection.

To be perfectly honest, she only put in an appearance _because_ of Draco. Narcissa and Lucius could go and jump off the nearest broom, but Draco was at that impressionable age where betrayal would mean a lifelong travesty. He would never trust anyone again. And he would view Antoinette's absence, were she not to show, as a betrayal. She was his beloved cousin who lavished him with a special treat on his special day and disappeared until Christmas. To break the routine would be crass, and would also demean about fifty non-spoken rules of propriety that they all knew instinctually.

She also did it because of Harry.

Draco (horrible though she felt to admit it) was sort of her substitute for Harry. She wasn't allowed to see her godson, speak to him, owl him, or contact him in anyway. No one was, for the boy's own safety. This had annoyed her. Highly. But she managed through it by reminding herself that Harry was with family closer to him than she, and was, by now, quite spoiled with love, if not even a little arrogant, growing up as the Boy-Who-Lived.

Antoinette liked Draco, yes, and being with him brought her a sense of fulfilment that she'd not felt since she'd been a child herself, playing about her own manor in the country, but at the same time, well . . . Draco was quite the spoilt little brat, more so than she had ever been. Sometimes he reminded Antoinette of his father, and she despised Lucius — not least because she knew he'd been a loyal Death Eater.

"How _have_ you been, Antoinette?" Narcissa spoke a little later as she poured them both tea. The summerhouse was of old Roman design, overlooking the main part of the gardens. Trimmed hedge-groves and scented blooms of every description (charmed to last all seasons) were a sight even for less appreciative eyes. A few majestic white peacocks strutted about before them, occasionally pecking at the emerald green lawn, or else emitting a shrieking cry. "You really should come by more often. Ever since Aunt Walburga died you've seemed distant."

"Yes, my dear, you really should," Lucius announced distractedly from his position on the daybed under the bay window, long-fingered hands holding a newspaper before his face as ice-blue eyes scanned the articles within with a calculation his bored tone belied. _Once a Death Eater . . . _

"That was four years ago. Trust me, I'm not grieving." To distract herself from the Malfoys' obvious machinations, she turned her gaze outward towards the large birds. She watched as a peafowl slowly approached its female counterpart, his head bobbing gently and his feet as they lifted, ballet-like, making not a whisper of sound in the grass. The peahen carried on, elegantly pecking away, taking no notice of her handsome admirer.

"It is only that you seem so sad, my dear. Surely you're not still grieving over Sirius?" The woman laughed a tinkling laugh and shared a glance with her husband that could mean any number of things. Antoinette saw only the obvious reason: to discomfort her. Well, she'd do the same.

"It's a wonder you're not still grieving, Narcissa, with your _sister _and her_ husband _and his_ brother _in prison. With Sirius there, well, Azkaban is turning out to be the ideal place for a family reunion." She cocked her head and placed a finger under her chin. "Makes one really think, doesn't it?"

Narcissa's lip pursed so much she looked in danger of swallowing it.

Antoinette smiled. Grimly. "You should know by now, at your age, that you'll burn if you play with fire. You will keep that in mind, won't you? Dear?"

"Really, Antoinette, you never were so blunt."

Lucius's drawl suggested approval of her gumption, but underneath all the layers of amiability he was telling her to watch herself. The Malfoys might be murderous muggle-haters, but they did love each other. Neither would stand for a direct assault on the other.

Antoinette cared not the slightest. "As opposed to your wife, who is always blunt? I used to think it a strict Bellatrix trait."

The peacock had moved on in his courting now, standing sternly alert behind the female with his large, pearl-eyed feathers flaring.

Narcissa exhaled in a rhythm of short staccatos. "Well. Well. Thank Merlin this little interlude never happened in front of our guests," she said, smiling tightly at Antoinette. She smiled back. The two witches understood each other, at least. "Speaking of which, they should be arriving soon. Dobby!"

_Pop. _"Yes, Mistress?"

"The dining table is set? The cake is baked, yes?"

"Everything is being ready," Dobby answered in a squeak Kreacher could never hope to emulate.

"Good." Narcissa swallowed, grey eyes flittering briefly towards Antoinette beneath long-lashed lids. "Take Draco and make him presentable. The grey silk this time, I think. Then bring him back here so I can comb his hair."

"Yes, Mistr —"

"MAUW!"

The peacock's echoing cry drowned out the elf's answer, sounding a cross between a domestic feline and an expert soprano. The resonance was fantastically poignant and beautiful; this bird, trying desperately to win over its mate in a ritual older than purebloods and politics.

There was a sudden flash of little robes.

"MAUW! MAUW!" The peacocks were both honking now, feathers reclasped. The Malfoy heir had taken it upon himself to jump out of the hedges and pull the cock's extravagant tail, interrupting the sacred ritual. Now both birds were chasing him, his little face wide with terror as he ran full pelt into the summerhouse.

"Mummy!" he wailed, and threw himself into Narcissa's arms.

"Really, Draco!" Narcissa scolded the sobbing child. "Do not antagonise the peacocks; your father and I have told you —"

"MAUW!" The male peacock announced its presence imperiously and furiously on the threshold, its many-eyed feathers lifted and burning iridescently, crying as if to say "Bring him out or I'm not moving!"

Lucius unfolded his legs and stood gracefully. "Arjuna, go and shriek somewhere else."

He brandished his paper in a threatening way at the albino cock until it turned away, seeming reluctant. But once he did so Arjuna wasted no time strutting back to his sweetheart, perhaps to make good on some comforting.

Lucius turned on his son. "No sweets for you today, Draco."

"But it's my birthday!" Draco cried, jumping out of his mother's arms.

His sire sneered down at him.

Draco's head ducked down, cheeks blooming with colour. "Sorry, father."

Narcissa was aghast. "Perhaps _one_ slice of cake, Lucius?" she bargained. "He _will_ only be six once."

Draco looked up hopefully.

The stone set face of Death Eater and dark wizard, the product of centuries' worth of Malfoys and impeccable breeding, visibly crumbled in the face of his son's puppy dog eyes. "Oh, very well."

"Yes!" Draco squealed.

_Oh, the Malfoy drama: it never ceases._

xxxxxx

"You'll think about it, won't you, Antoinette?"

She bit her lip.

Kingsley was a very handsome man. A strong jaw framed a set of full lips; he had shaved his black hair off entirely, commemorating the style preferred by men of his heritage. Tall, _very_ tall (her head could only reach his neck) and broad-shouldered, the obvious muscles undulating beneath the material of his robes every time he so much as moved. Warm dark eyes, promising untold happiness, completed the picture. But she just wasn't sure . . .

"I don't know, Kingsley. I–I, well you know that I'm–I'm still married, and I never . . ." she trailed off, awkward. She couldn't remember the last time she'd so stumbled through her speech.

Antoinette hated this.

Kingsley was a wonderful man. Honest. Charming. Brave. Young. Next in line for Head Auror. His presence seemed to exude a calming confidence to those he liked, and those he disliked he made nervous. Right now he was oozing power, and this close he smelled heavenly. He looked outstanding in robes, but completely sinful in a muggle suit. His teeth were white and his chest was broad, and his little gold earring had been the first thing to capture her attention, and she had been so utterly alone all these years, stuck first with Walburga, then Kreacher, and . . .

And . . .

And she was raised in the bosom of propriety. Her disposition was such that it caused a literal ache in her heart to contemplate infidelity. Even going out for a simple dinner, where nothing was guaranteed to happen, seemed almost to be too much. And . . .

And . . . she just . . .

He compromised, smiling down at her. "Dinner with friends, then, at _The Leaky Cauldron_. After work?"

_Oh, he's so good to me! _It made her feel all the more wretched. She didn't deserve him. Was still hung up on _— _

"If it's with friends . . . all right."

xxxxxx

Antoinette entered _Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occassions_ to the jangling of a bell. Her heels clacked against the wooden floor as she walked to the front desk, the dull sound sometimes muffled due to the strips of material littered about.

The witch at the counter wore pretentious mauve robes with an even showier hat, but they suited her squat figure. She looked up from filling out some important parchments, and smiled, all businessy. "Welcome to Madam Mal — oh, but it's my favourite customer! How can I help you today, dear?"

Antoinette looked about at the assembled bolts of cloth, her shrewd eye for fashion spotting the new arrivals instantly. "I require new robes for work, preferably in my usual style."

Madam Malkin tsked. "A beautiful woman like you hiding behind those potato sacks —"

"_Fashionable_ potato sacks," Antoinette corrected, grinning.

"They are that," said the Madame, looking jolly. She perused Antoinette up and down, a glint in her eye. "Perhaps you'd consider a colour other than your usual navy tones? We've a new lavenderish shade come in this morning. Nothing too gauche," she added quickly. "Or too fluttery; just the right texture and shade."

Antoinette pretended to consider, knowing that Madame was practically salivating at the thought of such a high-priced sell. Well, Antoinette did tend to purchase robes made out of the most _expensive_ material . . . "Show it to me."

"Oooh, you won't be disappointed, dear."

A quarter of an hour later Antoinette stood on a stool in the women's dressing room, attempting to persuade the seamstress to let go the idea of trying a new style. Her clipped-collared one was quite enough for her and quite enough for Crouch.

"But Antoinette, dear, your figure is simply extraordinary! It's shameful the way you hide it behind such bulbous robes. I'd love to show if off, at least a little bit. I don't get to indulge in you unless you've some important Ministry party or function to attend."

"No. I'm telling you, Crouch won't stand for it," she said firmly.

"But if you could just — drat! That was the bell. I'll be back as soon as I take care of this customer! Meanwhile, why don't you think on it?"

Antoinette opened her mouth to tell her she'd done all the thinking already, but Madame had disappeared out the dressing room with a rustling of robes.

Madam Black herself had a feeling she wouldn't win this time. Grinning, smirking, Antoinette shook her head. The things she put up . . .

A familiar voice churning with arrogance pricked her ears. ". . . starting Hogwarts. He'll need everything, including shoes if you sell them. Also, fit him up with a dress robe or two. And a cloak. Let him choose the style."

"Of course, Mrs Malfoy. Anything else?"

"Yes, actually, I'll pay you now. I still have to go to Ollivanders."

Just what Antoinette needed. The Malfoys. Although, Narcissa appeared to be going. That was good. She could speak to Draco alone if the situation required it.

"Mother, I want to go look at _Quality Quidditch Supplies_."

"Later, darling. Robes first. Your father will come collect you as soon as you're done."

The bell jangled once more as Narcissa left.

Madam Malkin's voice came close as she led Draco into the dressing room next door. "Up on the stool, dear. That's it. Now, if you could just wait a bit, I've another customer who was here first, and then I'll come right —"

Draco mumbled something Antoinette couldn't make out. Neither, it seemed, did the Madame. She carried on talking, jolly as always. "Now, if you'll just stand there Matilda — where is Matilda? — ah, there you are. Matilda will be measuring your robes today, Mr Malfoy. And here's the material — what's this?" The bell had jangled once more. "Oh deary me, another customer. Back in a moment!"

Her friend was sounding more frazzled by the minute. It was to be expected, Antoinette supposed, with Hogwarts looming for more than a few students.

Sure enough, as if Madam Malkin had read her mind, she said to her newest customer, "Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here — another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

There was silence for a few seconds as Madame led the other student over to the men's dressing room.

Draco's voice pierced it. "Hullo," he said. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said the new boy.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said Draco in the bored, drawling voice he adopted when wanting to impress. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

_Oh, Draco, you spoilt little thing._

"Have _you_ got your own broom?"

"No," said the other boy.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No."

"_I_ do — Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No."

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm."

The poor boy was obviously intimated by Draco, if his monosyllabic answers were anything to go by. That, or he was muggleborn, and hadn't a clue what her little cousin-by-marriage was talking about.

"I say, look at that man!" Draco said suddenly.

"That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts," said the other boy at once, startling Antoinette with the information.

"Oh," said Draco in a sneering tone. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

Antoinette listened intently, interested in what the boy had to say. If he really was muggleborn how could he possibly know? "He's the gamekeeper."

"Yes, exactly," said Draco. "I heard he's sort of _savage_ — lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," said the other boy. Coldly. She leaned further forward, almost standing on tiptoes. What a fascinating exchange.

"_Do_ you?" said Draco, sneer evident in his voice. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"My parents are dead."

Antoinette fell off her stool.

"Oh, sorr —"

"What was that?"

"Is everything all right, Antoinette dear?" the Madame called, concerned.

"Antoinette?" parroted Draco.

"I'm perfectly all right, Madam Malkin," she called breathlessly, cheeks heating as she stood and began brushing off. Squaring her shoulders, fixing a few straggly strands of hair, she drew a breath and made her way out of the women's dressing room and into the mens', talking all the while. "Just fell off the stool. Too much thinking. I was telling Eric the other day . . ." her words petered off, forgotten.

There, standing beside Draco on a similar stool, was her godson.

"Is everything all right, Cousin Toni?"

The voice entered her consciousness as if from a long tunnel, and it was only then that Antoinette realised she had been staring stupidly for the better part of thirty seconds. The Madame, her assistant, and Draco were all blinking up at her. Harry wasn't. His cheeks had bloomed with colour and his hands were fidgeting due to such unabashed scrutiny. His eyes, though, were glaring up at her in confusion. Such beautiful eyes. She'd never thought . . . "Harry," she whispered, quite stupidly, and those green eyes stopped glaring and started widening.

"How do you —?" he began, but Antoinette didn't let him finish.

"Madame, if you're quite finished here, I'll take your suggestion about that new style."

Madam Malking started to grin. "Oh, wonderful —"

"You know my measurements," Antoinette interjected, feeling horribly false. But anything to get away from the suddenly stifling room. "Floo it to me when you're ready. Draco, it was good seeing you again. Tell you're parents I said hello. Good day."

She rushed out of the shop.

She didn't dare stay.

She was too ashamed.

Seeing the two boys standing together . . . A sob rose in her throat and she choked it down by sheer will power. Antoinette pushed her way through the morning crowd, not acknowledging those she bumped in to.

Those eyes!

Those green eyes had seemed to accuse her. Seemed to be asking "Why?"

Why she'd never bothered to show up over the years, why she'd abandoned her duty. Why she'd, instead, doted on the other boy: the one who had seemed so conceited. _Here I am!_ Harry seemed to be saying. _Look at who you chose instead of me. He doesn't even like Hagrid!_

But she hadn't been able to contact Harry. She hadn't been allowed!

_All excuses._

When Antoinette arrived home she plunked her bottom on the divan and cried. She cried for Harry and for all the missing years, she cried for Draco and for the unsolicited thoughts she'd had about him. An eleven-year-old child, still under the thumb of condescending parents, was undeserving of them. And finally, she cried for herself. What a complete and utter failure she was. She'd failed both of them. They didn't know it, of course (how could they?) but _she_ knew it.

It was all Sirius's fault. If he hadn't . . .

A short scream left her throat. Not again. Not again. Not again.

Always him. Always.

_Happy Birthday, Harry._

xxxxxx

"No, not that one! The one blue one with the hood — yes that's it! Oh, how could I have overslept. Crouch isn't going to be — where's the paper?"

"Kreacher has put it in the slot by the front door, Mistress. As always."

She was too preoccupied to scold the elf on his snide tone. "Of course, how silly of me to forget." She threw on her hooded cloak, grabbed the paper, and dashed out the door.

Antoinette Apparated almost without thinking, appearing in the atrium's specially blocked off Apparition room, and immediately making her way to the lift, pushing past a gaggle of Ministry workers who seemed to be doing nothing but standing around and procrastinating.

"Excuse me – Thanks ever so – Oh, was that your foot? – So sorry – Is that a new hat, Dolores?"

"Wait — Mrs Black!" Arthur Weasley shouted after her, but she was in too much of a hurry to say hello now. She hoped he wouldn't take offence.

When the doors of the lift shut with a clang, she finally allowed herself to relax. What topic could have been so important that most of the higher-ups were bundled together in front of a crummy old lift talking about it excitedly instead of working?

Antoinette blinked.

And unfolded her paper.

And blinked. What was a vampire doing —?

"Oh. My. God."

Her heart rolled over in her chest, twisting, aching. Her breath stuttered. And stuttered. And stuttered. Her vision hazed.

There_._ There. _There!_ There on the front cover of _The Daily Prophet,_ scowling up at her, was, was —

_Sirius._

When the lift finally came to its third floor destination, it was Bertha Jorkins who found Antoinette unconscious on its dirty floor.

xxxxxx

A/N: Everyone knows that the dialogue between Harry and Madam Malkin and Harry and Draco does not belong to me, but instead comes from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, pages 59 to 61.


	16. The Passing of Years Part Two

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: Back Again. Thanks so much to all my reviewers. You really make my day.

On another note: I've borrowed a lot of quotes from the _Harry Potter_ books in this chapter. In case you don't know it about me, but I never mark where I've quoted. To me, that just ruins/interrupts the flow of the story. I do, however, reference after the end of the chapter. The quotes should be fairly recognisable to all Harry Potter nuts, in any case.

Hope you enjoy!

xxxxx

**Chapter Fifteen: The Passing of Years (Part 2)**

"NOOOOOO!"

The thin figure, pale from lack of sun, body bent almost back in upon itself in a futile attempt to stave off the constant cold, awoke with a start.

Dead eyes blinked dully.

"NOOOOO! PLEAAAASSSEE!"

Sirius Black cocked his head at the sound that had wakened him from an, admittedly, fitful sleep. The screaming wasn't so unusual — one became immune to it after being forced to spend over a year listening to much of the same — but the proximity was. Never before had it been this loud. Never before had anyone screamed so close to his own cell.

This section was empty. Voldemort's most promulgating followers, his most dangerous, were too cunning, scum though they were, to warrant a placement in Azkaban, let alone in a high security cell.

But this . . . This was new.

And intriguing.

"ARRGGHH! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!!" The screaming was getting louder now, short sobs and whimpering, the sounds ricocheting off the damp, lonely walls. Sirius wasted no time: he sat up in a crouch and scuttle-crawled as quickly as his emaciated body enabled to the direction of his cell door. Stick-like fingers found purchase on the bars there — a recent addition to Azkaban, this renovation. Where before there had only been a little-barred window in which to look in or out, now the whole door was made from bars: the better to bring misery to the prisoners. If one could _see_ out to the corridor one was brought hope; it also meant one had more food with which to feed one's unholy caretakers.

Not that Sirius had any hope either way. His thoughts and feelings these days leant more towards the bitter and destructive — nothing the Dementors could use. The bastards. Even though he was a high-security prisoner, they didn't affect him nearly as much as they could had he, firstly, not been an Animagus and, secondly, knew, to the depths of his soul and beyond, that he was innocent of any wrong doing except suspecting the wrong man at the wrong time. That he would have to live with for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

"ARGHHHH!"

_Whimpering. Sobbing. More screaming._

Who was it?

The prisoner tilted his manky head as the footsteps came louder; nostrils widened and closed in a way that could not be called human, the interior sensitive hairs instinctively pricking in an attempt to sniff out potential danger. So doggish was this action, and no effect (nor smell) did it bring except to make its owner irritated, he having not as yet caught on that, as human, he could not smell anything besides the stink on his clothes and the cold of the prison.

_I've spent too long as a dog_, Sirius thought miserably. But he had no time to contemplate this degradation of self because the sobbing had reached him. Almost at once a new stab of sharp cold pierced his soul, bringing with it a wave of dread so deep he had to take several fortifying breaths just to stop the scream that had lodged in his throat from escaping. He knew what that feeling meant and what it would bring.

Two _Dementors_ glided passed, a young boy gripped between their skeletal, rotting fingers, his mouth emitting occasional whimpering howls and his head shaking back and forth wildly as if to try and convince himself that it wasn't happening.

But it was. It always did.

A flash of fair hair glinted off what little moonbeams penetrated the cracks in the corridor walls. That flash brought to mind another with fair hair, but this was not she. Not his wife.

This was Barty Crouch Junior.

"_I'm telling you it's Remus, James. Remus."_

"_I just can't believe –"_

"_Take my bike, Hagrid. I've no more use for it."_

"_Lily and James, Sirius? H-how could you!"_

_A flash of green light . . ._

Sirius blinked, morphing into a dog quickly as the direct presence of the _fiends _became too much, and scuttled back into the safety of his dark cell, hot, canine breath forming clouds of vapour in the air before his muzzle with every short pant.

The images had hit him at once but not unexpectedly. At the moment Sirius cared about as much as a dog would. Something more exciting was happening, at last, in this pit, and Sirius forced himself to concentrate on that instead. Who knew how long it would be until the change in screaming monotony (if there was such a thing) happened again.

Barty Crouch Junior. _Ha!_

Ha-ha-ha!

Before he knew it Sirius was cackling — as much as a dog without vocal chords could.

_Wonder if old Barty's had a nervous breakdown yet?_

That thought brought on another round of laughter.

_Wonder if he's tortured his son for information, like he did…_

Sirius let the thought fester, a maniacal grin stretching the waxy skin on his face. This, combined with his sunken cheeks had the effect — had he only knew it — of a countenance that more resembled a corpse than a living man. Yes. Better to be bitter in Azkaban. Better to be bitter than to be happy. That way only led to more Dementors, and thus more madness.

And when, precisely, had he transformed back into human? Merlin, he was mess. Couldn't even keep track of what species he was supposed to be. He expected the madness was creeping up on him again. Not so surprising, really — it happened every so often, when the knowledge that he would spend the rest of his life in this place hit him all at once. He would just have to be extra diligent from now on.

Bartemius Crouch Junior's screams sounded once more as the _leeches_ tossed him into a cell somewhere nearby.

It would hit young Barty soon enough, too, if it hadn't already.

This one wouldn't last long.

Sirius gave it a year at the most.

But what had he done to end up in high security? A place where, until now, had only played host to one exalted prisoner? Whom had the boy killed? Whom had he tortured? These thoughts were sobering, and fear began to beat along with the pulse in Sirius's throat.

Whom had he hurt?

The thought had only just come to him when another wave of cold penetrated his heart, this time so strong that he actually did scream.

More Dementors. But he couldn't afford to transform now. They were bringing more prisoners. More witnesses. Dragging them as a tiger drags its prey. The victims were shrieking and squealing . . . screaming. All this pervaded the hollowness of the prison until one sound was indistinguishable from another. All Sirius knew for certain was that at least one prisoner was female. And, by the tone and volume of the shrieking, could make a good guess as to which.

"Bellatrix."

The whisper had left his lips almost reverently.

She was now food for the creatures. Nourishment. To be eaten and enjoyed until the bloat overtook. Until satisfaction had been sufficiently gorged and a shell left in the place where once there resided cognisance. Sirius had no doubt that his dear cousin would loose her sanity. Already mad to begin with, Bella stood not a chance. Although . . . Bellatrix was probably _so_ cocks'd in the head that she had almost no happy memories at all. Azkaban, for her at least, might prove to be redundant.

_Great. And I have to live with her._

_Please, please put her in a cell somewhere _FAR_ away._

She was there suddenly; as Crouch Jr. before her was carried between two Dementors so was Bellatrix. But, unlike Crouch, she walked under her own power and seemed to be viewing everything with a sneer of cold maliciousness, as if Azkaban was below her approval. Heaven Forbid.

"_Toni – _

"_I hate you, Sirius! I'll leave. There. I'll leave. That is what you want me to do. I'm going now. To Grimmauld Place."_

"_Go." He turned away, unable to bear watching her depart. Watch her hate him._

"_I'm sorry. I don't really hate you," was said quietly behind his back. A gentle, slender hand, warm, rested lightly on his back for one second before . . ._

"_. . . even your wife believes you guilty, and she ought to know shouldn't she?"_

"_Shouldn't she?"_

"_Shouldn't she?"_

Sirius crouched up, crawling slowly towards the bar, ignoring the images in his head as best he could.

_She doesn't think she'll be staying here,_ Sirius thought with awe. _She fully believes her Lord or someone loyal to him will save her._

Sirius snorted.

His cousin's head whipped towards the sound. "Who's there?" she whispered, shrill, eyes darting feverishly into the dark.

"Who do you think, cousin?" Sirius drawled, shocking himself at the sound of his own voice after so many months spent mute.

"_You,"_ she hissed. Her spittle when it shot — Sirius fancied it was painted black. "Blood traitor!" She still could not see him, dark as it was. Sirius himself could barely see her, but he could certainly see out more than she could see in.

"I certainly like to think so." He spoke to her back now as the Dementors passed his cell, though Bellatrix still struggled to turn her head in his direction.

Suddenly she was laughing. That horrible cackle that so resembled his mother's. "Blood traitor. Blood traitor. Do THEY know you're a blood traitor, blood traitor? Ha! My Lord shall rise again and save me, Sirius, but you . . ." He could hear the smirk in her voice. "You, my extremely hated cousin, will be stuck here forever."

Rather than upsetting him, this only made him smile. She had no idea, of course, that he escaped every day thanks to Padfoot. And Sirius never lost an opportunity to gloat. "Don't you even wonder how I'm sane, Bella?" he shouted at her back.

It stiffened. Bellatrix turned her head one last time struggling, in vain, to let go the Dementors.

"It's because I'm innocent! The Dementors will never get to _me_ because I'm innocent!"

For one moment, she faltered. Cold eyes growing less sure, before cunning entered into them once more. "Oh, yes you're innocent," she smirked. "But you'll still be stuck here."

"You just wait and see," he growled.

Bellatrix actually threw back her head and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Her laughter echoed through the prison, bouncing off the walls, growing softer the further she was dragged away.

She was still laughing shrilly when they tossed her in a cell somewhere further down.

Sirius drew a deep breath and got his throat ready for a battering. "VOLDEMOOOOORT!" he screamed.

A shriek of rage sounded under his own shout.

"VOLDEMORT! VOLDEMORT! VOLDEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORT!"

"YOU DARE SPEAK THE DARK LORD'S NAAAAAAAAAAAME?!"

Sirius laughed to himself. The easiest way to make a Death Eater loose composure was to get them where it hurt. Bellatrix in particular was so obsessed with her "Dark Lord" that any offence to him was an offence to her.

"SOME DARK LORD!" Sirius shouted back. "DEFEATED BY A _ONE-YEAR-OLD_!"

"I'LL KILL YOU, FILTHY MUDBLOOD LOVER!" she screamed, sounding so frustrated that she should have been having a heart attack. "ONE DAY I SHALL _SLAUGHTER_ YOU!"

"DID YOU KNOW HARRY POTTER'S MY GODSON?!"

"AAAHHHHHHHHRGH!"

But Sirius had erred. His happiness at Bella's anger had cost him. Dementor's swarmed by his cell, dozens, and he passed into darkness, for once not caring. It had been worth it to see Bella loose composure. Well, as much composure as it was possible to loose when you hadn't much of it to begin with.

Now, thanks to Bellatrix's loss of self-control, her words, an idea began to take shape in Sirius's subconscious. It was true that no one had ever contemplated escape from Azkaban before. The prisoners were too lost in their own minds to even think of something so convoluted. All wizards and witches had grown up on the stories of Azkaban. _"It's impenetrable,"_ they had been told. _"Impossible to escape". "Never been done before". "Labyrinth". "Surrounded by sea". "I'd like to see one man that can outsmart those guards. Demons, the lot of them"_.

Had anyone ever asked why not? What had stopped people from escaping? The Dementors were blind — Sirius had managed to fool them for almost a year-and-a-half now, once he'd overcome his fear of transforming into Padfoot before them. They could not sense an Animagus. Finally, _finally_, in the whole history of Azkaban there was someone who was sane enough, desperate enough, and had the means necessary to do it. It would be a long way yet until escape was possible, until Sirius had enough motivation _to_ escape. But the seeds had been planted. They had taken root. They would blossom until such time came when he was finally ready. When he would finally be _pushed_ . . .

Sirius waited for that day. A tiny kindle of hope had appeared in his heart where before there had been none. He never consciously acknowledged this hope, but it was there.

Waiting to flame.

xxxxx

"MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"

_Silence._

"MUUUUUUUUUMYYYYYYY!"

_Silence._

"Mum? M-Mum? MUM, MUM, WHERE ARE YOU?"

_Quietly,_

"Where are you?"

_Sobs. Sobs in the dark. _

"DON'T LEAVE ME, MUM! _Don'tleavemdon'tleaveohgoddon'tleaveme_MOTHEEEEERRRRRR!"

"SHUT IT!" Lestrange screamed. Which brother, Sirius couldn't recognise.

More sobs. Whimpering.

_Quiet._

It had been like this for three days; Barty Crouch screaming, that is. Screaming for his mother. He'd go completely quiet eventually. They all did.

_Fuck!_

Even Bellatrix.

Who never lost an opportunity to get his goat. Fucking bitch!

Alice and Frank . . . the bastards got Alice and Frank.

xxxxxx

The influx of pale light filled his cell with a questioning beacon. Sirius answered by remembering the happier times — times of laughter and pranks and running around wild with his friends. Yet . . . yet . . . sometimes the sight of that pale luminescence filled him also with despair. That brilliantly opaque light only served to better illuminate his current misfortunes. Many times he had depressed himself at the sight of his filthy box-cell, his stick fingers, connected by apathetic knobs that he'd once called knuckles, the corpse-like clarity of his waxy skin, the jagged fingernails (after awakening from dementor-induced comas he'd discovered, oftimes, that he'd clawed at his stone surrounds with an almost wild desperation), all this was so displayed, so _bright_, so disgustingly constant that the sight of it gave him cause for depression, which often lasted several days to his estimate. And then the cycle would start over.

Every month he waited for this dichotomy of happy and sad.

Every month he waited for the full moon.

_A way to keep track of time._

xxxxxxx

The weeks drifted on, then the months. Sirius had thought that his absolute worst moment, his most miserable and enraged, could not have surpassed the time when he'd found out the reason why the Lestranges and Crouch Junior were currently occupying the cells they were occupying. Nothing, he'd thought, could get any worse than that, save for his finding out another friend had been murdered.

He had been wrong.

His absolute worst moment came about five months or so after the Lestrange's incarceration.

He was minding his own business — as one tends to do in a filthy, set in its ways prison that forbids human contact of any sort except from those who already live there — when Bellatrix started up again.

Shrieking.

For an hour. Constantly.

But of course she was mad. Had gone almost completely _'round the bend_ during her first week. She had taken to muttering and moaning most of the time while the rest was spent heaping obscenities on the "mudblood lovers" and defending her precious Dark Lord in shrieks and screams, as if the opposition was right there in front of her.

Yes. _Completely_ insane.

Of course she had her lucid moments, as did they all no matter how few and far between, and all of those moments (or at least most of all of them) were spent antagonising Sirius. Sirius retaliated by spending his time antagonising her. Usually, he won their little spats. That is to say, he _always_ won them, except once — her story of the Longbottoms' torture had put him in a state of catatonia for half a day while Bellatrix gloated and cackled, her voice just out of reach of his conscious recollection.

As the months dragged by, Bellatrix's periods of lucidness appeared less and less. After five weeks hearing nothing from her cell besides the whimpering and moaning of the damned (or the Dement_ed_), Sirius concluded that she'd finally joined the rest in the realm of total lunacy: now a prisoner in her own mind, the ectoplasmic cage of mindlessness never fleeting but always constant. Shackled in her madness, unable even to empty her bowels without soiling herself. Unable even to eat. She would die. They all would eventually.

Sirius did not count on their infatuation.

On _her_ infatuation. On just how obsessed they all really were. How insane they already had been before they even thought to breathe Azkaban air.

Death Eaters: ever loyal to their Lord.

It gave them a purpose, this mindless adoration. And it gave them back some semblance of their former selves. Not as much as Sirius (they weren't guilt-ridden or embittered, just entirely obsessed with Voldemort and thought him the God at which feet they were permitted to worship and the arse at which crack they were privileged to wipe) but enough to breach those ectoplasmic bars.

So, shrieking.

Bellatrix was shrieking, which was such a normal occurrence by now that Sirius was used to it. When this normal occurrence continued for an hour straight, Sirius had enough.

Tone precipitous, and loud enough for her to hear (just) Sirius barked, deep voice resonating through the dark cells, "Might you think about putting a sock in it, cousin?"

The shrieking, unbelievably, stopped.

Sirius did not have enough time be shocked because she started up _again_, this time with words. And it was these words that convinced Sirius his cousin once more had entered the world of the rational (as rational as it was possible to be for Bellatrix).

"Seery, Seery, Seery."

He hated that name. "Yes, Bellabumpkin?" He drawled in his most bored tone so as not to reveal the annoyance in it.

Her own voice was sweet, despite hating her childhood pet name. Names they'd used to aggravate each other in their youth. "I've met your wife, did you know?"

Sirius instantly stopped lounging and sat up, hands fisting the cell bars. He dared not speak as that would only give her . . . what? Satisfaction? Information? What, what, what?!

Blood thudded hotly in the pulses at his temples and in his throat, clogging it. He choked, coughed on the dried dirt that stuck to his tonsils, resumed listening.

_Met Toni?_ Had she met Toni or had she _met_ Toni? He forced himself to breathe. _She's trying to irk you, that's what she does,_ he reminded himself. It didn't help. Panic took over. _Oh, God, she's killed her! She's tortured her! Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuck! Please, please, God, no. No. NononononononononononoNO! Please – fuck – please!_

"Did you? And what did you think of her?" Sirius had neither notion nor memory as to how he'd managed to get that out so evenly.

"Oh, I _loved_ her. So cold."

Sirius went limp. His limbs refused to move anymore. He couldn't help it, he was so relieved.

"She hates you, did you know?" Bellatrix asked innocently.

He didn't bother to respond.

"Yes, I'd met her first at Grimmauld Place while visiting Auntie Walburga. Poor dear, all locked up 'cause Crouch wanted her in for questioning." Bellatrix tutted unconvincingly.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. She had been all alone in there, with your mother and that batty old house elf. What was a young, beautiful girl like that to do, I ask you? And hating you as she did. Why, she never had chance."

Bellatrix's voice had become very girly and fluttery, but Sirius was at a loss. What in bloody hell was the woman going on about?

"Then, I met her again at Cissy's." Bellatrix talked as if they were old friends exchanging gossip over tea and cucumber sandwiches in a wallpapered drawing room. The situation was so bizarre that Sirius had to pinch himself to see if he hadn't drifted off into a spontaneous stupor. He hadn't. "It was Christmas Eve and you know how Cissy loves to throw those lavish parties? Anyway, it was the Eve of Christmas —" _What in the world . . .?_ "— and your Antoinette is there all dressed up in a pretty sparkly creation and on the arm of some wizard."

Sirius's vision tunnelled in a single, split moment. The world tilted a degree, then rearranged itself. "Oh?" he drawled. Inside his heart was clenching.

"I asked around — discreetly of course. Didn't want to cause unfounded suspicion." She giggled. "Anyway, I asked around, and it turns out that I needn't have worried about causing unfounded suspicion because everyone already knew she had a lover. Can you believe it?"

Sirius said, because he had no other choice but to, "You think I care about whose bed she sleeps in?" But the pain was immense.

"I think you care." His cousin's voice had turned suddenly soft and calculating. "I think you're burning up inside with how much you care."

"Our relationship was a front," Sirius breathed. His eyes blinked a little too quickly. "I only married her to take back my gold, as you well know."

He could practically see the pout in his cousin's voice. "You're no fun anymore, Seery. You're not playing the game properly, shame on you!"

Sirius closed his eyes and swallowed around the howl in his throat. His world had ended. He couldn't believe or understand what he was feeling now. The thickness in his throat, the intense ache in his heart that felt like it would squeeze him to death, the sheer terror, the fear, slithering from his stomach up into his chest. What if it was all true? The thought of Antoinette in _flagrante delicto_ in some other man's bed . . . kissing him, touching him, laughing with him, doing all those things that she should have done to Sirius, that Sirius should have done to her. Instead he'd wasted . . .

_Oh God. Please. No. Anything but that. _

In that instant he understood that he had only once before in his life felt anything as devastating as the pain that slashed through him, cutting his insides to bits, and he reached out with a pale, skeletal hand, gripping the iron bars that framed the door of his cell until the white of bone stood out under the skin over his knuckles. _Please, just let me forget. Let me forget._

But the Dementors would not come now. The possibility of Antoinette's betrayal was not a pleasant or ecstatic thought. His regular guard floated just beside his cell, but Sirius could handle one Dementor after two-and-a-half years spending time in its loathsome, slimy presence. One Dementor wasn't enough now.

Bellatrix, damn her, had kicked him where it hurt the most. She'd known just what to say to get to him.

But . . . but . . . his cousin, even as a child, could never differentiate completely between love and hate. Joy or pain. In her twisted mind, both were linked. Two sides of the same coin rather than on opposite ends of a very long spectrum. She could not have known whether he loved Antoinette and she could not have known whether he hated her, which meant she'd only told him the information on the hope that Sirius did care for her. He remembered the small kiss they'd shared on the stairs in _The Leaky Cauldron_; an act he'd preformed completely for Bellatrix's sake. Had he been so convincing, then? Had Bellatrix really thought that he'd fallen in love with Antoinette?

If so . . . bloody perceptive bitch.

This conclusion did nothing to help him. It still didn't mean Bellatrix was telling the truth. It didn't mean she wasn't either.

God, it was unbearable. He didn't know what to think. Sheer frustration lanced through him.

He wept.

xxxxxxx

As the year disappeared into the next, and as the fallout from the war brought to light traitors and betrayers, more Death Eaters came to call Azkaban their home. Many of them were placed in high-security along with the Lestranges, Crouch, and Sirius. But Sirius never saw them. The Dementors never brought them passed his cell. He could hear them though, those first few days. Weeks. Screaming.

xxxxxxxx

"My condolences, Barty, but in all truth it was only to be expected. Only the strong survive here."

"Just take us to him, Millicent. I don't think my wife can – I don't believe she can stand anymore."

Muffled sobs followed that statement.

"Yes, of course – _ahem_ – you! Dementor! Lead the way."

Sirius watched behind the bars of his cell, body hidden in shadow. So.

So.

Crouch and his sickly looking wife had finally come to visit their son, and it took all of a year, if Sirius's moon calendar was anything to go by.

Human visitors were an oddity in Azkaban. Only the Minister and her brood were ever permitted to venture to the depths of Despair. That Crouch and his wife were here now . . . Crouch Junior must be dying.

xxxxxx

Grey eyes, wide, watched as the _fiends_ buried the corpse.

The windows near the roofs of the cells had conveniently lowered themselves to provide ample desolation to those 'living' within.

The ritual was over in a few minutes, and the window shot back up. Mocking, almost.

Sirius snorted, crawled into a corner and hugged his legs. He couldn't care less. Mocking only worked if the recipient could feel it.

And Sirius had lost feeling anything except cold a long time ago.

xxxxxxx

_July 24__th__, 1992._

Water dripped in steady pulses from a spot on the ceiling. The pulses merged with the sound of oncoming footsteps until one was indistinguishable from the other.

Two men, one dressed in pinstriped robes the other in violet purple, came to a halt before one of the many crossroads dotted about the prison, faces pale and hair lank. They held their wands aloft, two pinpricks of light visible on the ends, just enough to outline their figures and a smattering of colour.

"I loathe these annual inspections. You would think after three years I'd get used to it!" said the shorter wizard, wiping his brow with a white linen handkerchief. "Look at this? Cold sweat — only in Azkaban will you get cold sweat. How much longer, Cotswold?"

"Just the high-security division, Minister."

"Ah. _Them_." Cornelius Fudge coughed into the handkerchief, pocketing it afterwards. He withdrew his pocket watch after some difficulty, squinted down at the time, and harrumphed to himself, placing it back in his robes. "No need to linger, I should think. A quick swipe ought to do it. The cameras have readied themselves?"

"I believe it's already been taken care of, sir."

"Very good. Good thing we installed those bars, eh? Much easier taking snaps from beyond the cell rather than having to go _in_ and face … er …" He coughed once more. Delicately. Then, after clearing his throat and straightening the newspaper under his arm, continued on in a firm tone. "The Dementors are gone?"

"There are no Dementors currently patrolling the high security cells, Minister."

Cornelius shivered in an almost prescribed and anticipated way. He was all for the idea of Dementors guarding Azkaban prison, and thus, protecting the rest of the world from the filth within, but when it came down to it they really were just demons. Pure and simple. And you couldn't really control demons, as Dumbledore often tried to tell him.

Cornelius snorted. _That's the one thing we can't agree on._ Dementors had been guarding Azkaban for well over half a millennia now, and they had shown no indication of mutiny before. Where Albus got his ideas he'd never know. "Excellent. After you, then, Cotswold."

The Minister for Magic moved aside to let his Junior Undersecretary pass. If there had been a little more light (and if Cornelius had been feeling brave enough to look up past anything other than his own two feet) he would have noticed the slight sneer on his employee's face — a response to the Minister's not-very-well-hidden apprehension.

_Hope this doesn't take too long, _Cornelius thought to himself as he fell in step behind the other wizard. _I haven't even read my paper yet! _They might have only been inside the prison for a good thirty-five minutes (more than enough time to glance into cells and inspect everything properly as they walked by), but even that was too long a time in Cornelius's opinion. He'd heard that his predecessor had actually even stepped _inside_ the cells, so as to inspect the prisoners even more thoroughly. Cornelius shivered in disgust and horror. He wasn't mad enough to do so with this lot in high-security, especially not with that Bla. . . He gulped, dismissing the scenario from his mind.

"This is the corridor, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

It looked rather like all the others. Damp. Dark. Depressing. Despairing. "I don't hear anything," said the Minister. "They all seemed to have lost whatever sanity they had left." They had lost it long ago, but Cornelius always chose to forget until the moment when he had to remember again. Feeling a bit more confident now, the Minister lifted his wand and withdrew a sheet of parchment from thin air, which floated beside his face, the faint outline of words barely visible on the caramel-coloured surface.

"Now, where did I put my quill?" asked Cornelius vocally. In truth he had not thought to bring one with him.

Cotswold thrust one under his boss's nose. "I have one, Minister."

"Thank you, Cotswold. We'll begin, I think." They began walking, the Minister behind the other wizard once more, reciting the names in a bored sort of tone after ticking them off the list.

"Gibbon?"

Cotswold stuck his wand by the bars, briefly outlining a figure that was lying down, staring glassy-eyed upwards. "Looks to be insane, Minister."

"Quite so," coughed Cornelius, scribbling down the wizard's condition beside his name. They hurried along to the next cell, which was empty. So were the two after that. It wasn't until they reached Cell 8 that there was any sign of life. "Rookwood?"

The light identified a wizard sitting with his knees tucked up against his chest, muttering to himself. "Lost," said Cotswold.

And on they went, the Minister becoming more jolly and confident with every name so identified and the lack of response from the recipients.

"Rowle?"

"Same condition."

"Dolohov?"

"Non-responsive."

"Mulciber?"

"Drooling."

"Should think about getting a bib," Cornelius chortled to himself. "Travers?"

"Blinking at the wall."

"Jugson?"

The light flared. "Sniffing at something, sir."

Cornelius sniggered. "Black?"

"Present," a deep voice answered unexpectedly.

The Minister and his junior undersecretary jumped back from the cell in terror, Cotswold's wand falling from his flailing fingers, clattering to the floor and extinguishing most of the light. "B-Black?" Cornelius stuttered, unable to believe it. _B-but how? How?!_

"Are you finished with your newspaper, Minister?" The deep voice came, bored and cool, from within the depths of the dark cell. The question was so unforeseen that it took the Minister a while to register it. And both wizards fancied rather hysterically that they could see the two pinpricks that made up Black's pupils peering out at them from the gloom.

"Y-yes." Cornelius shook his head and all but thrust his paper through the bars, despite not having read it. "Here, t-take it!" It was only later that the Minister would realise how ridiculous he was acting.

"Thank you," Black drawled, gently grasping the paper, the pages crackling as he unfolded it. "I quite miss doing the crossword, you know."

"Er, do you?" said Cornelius, all the while urging Cotswold in frantic gestures to get a move on. "Enjoy, then."

"Goodbye, Minister." That rich voice held a touch of bemusement. The two wizards never noticed; they couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Sirius chuckled to himself as he watched the men scarper away towards Bellatrix's cell. His being _not insane_ had to unnerve them. That he had talked intelligently at all, that he had _conversed_ with them at all, had either put a stump in what they thought about him, or expanded the thoughts they already had. It was a likelihood they assumed worse of him now than they had before they'd come to Azkaban today — that he had somehow, unimaginably and against all odds, used dark magic to stay rational. He had remained deliberately inactive during all previous Ministry inspections, but today had been an especially good day for him, and he had wanted to stir them up a bit. Play a prank, if you will. He hadn't felt this good in a _long_ time, and just once every year was he allowed to — no Dementors were permitted anywhere near the Minister or his company. They would not be swarming to his cell when they felt his enjoyment. Merlin, he felt so _alive_!

His good mood did not last long.

Sirius took one look at the picture on the front page, and went very still.

The sickle moon provided not so much light, but enough so that he could make out limbs, colours of clothes, of hair, and faces.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't!

Sirius arose in a frantic jerk and thrust the newspaper in the broadest beam of moonlight angling down from the window. The words blurred for an indistinct moment. He blinked hard. Please, let it not be . . .

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE_

_Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual _Daily Prophet_ Grand Prize Galleon Draw._

_A delighted Mr Weasley told the _Daily Prophet_, "We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank."_

_The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend."_

The picture said it all. There, on the youngest Weasley boy's shoulder, sat Wormtail. There could be no mistaking him. The missing paw, the fat belly, that utterly smug look on his ratty face . . . So that's where he'd been hiding all these years. Sirius had suspected as much, but hadn't really believed . . . Then something occurred to him. Something that had his heart beating wildly and fear lancing through his body.

Sirius set the paper down _very_ slowly.

Oh God, the Weasley boy went to Hogwarts. _Harry_ was at Hogwarts now. The Weasley's had always been Gryffindors, and Sirius had no doubt that Harry had been sorted into that house as well.

_Merlin, no! PLEASE! _His thoughts turned slightly hysterical. Never had he felt frustration so much as in that moment. Here he was, stuck, unable to do anything, while Wormtail had the perfect opportunity to strike at Harry, should he hear even a whisper of the whereabouts of his master.

Sirius lashed out at the wall, closed his eyes at the pain in his fist, felt the heat behind his eyelids.

_No-no._ He breathed deeply once. Twice. Thrice. _No, but I mustn't panic now._ He mustn't panic. He had to remain calm. Couldn't alert the Minister, who was still no doubt patrolling the high-security ward. Couldn't alert him, though he felt like screaming.

_ARRRGGGGHHHH!_

He wanted out! He wanted _OUT_! He wanted to kill — _no!_ No, that was too mild a word. He wanted to slaughter, rip into soft flesh with razor doggy teeth and spit the fur out afterwards. He wanted to crunch through brittle bone and spongy tissue, feel the red blood, so hot and sweet, gush into his mouth like liquid fire. He wanted to fall asleep to the sounds of desperate squeaks and cries and take satisfaction in the knowledge that the rat could never hurt anyone he cared about again.

Anything. He would do anything necessary to stop Wormtail, to protect Harry. But all of that, every single delicious fantasy that his brain could conjure, was not possible as long as he was still imprisoned behind these walls. _Merlin_, he wanted out! He wanted out. He wanted . . . wanted . . . Sirius started hyperventilating. The sheer frustration, anger, and hopelessness at his situation had him fainting in seconds.

_Meanwhile, the tiny kindle of hope in his heart (almost forgotten, but never transitory) swelled just a little more._

xxxxxxx

_July 29__th__, 1992._

Sirius had agonised for five days, suffering his worst headache in a decade due to the frustration of not being able to do anything. Of being helpless. He had sworn and cursed and paced as much as he was able. He had barked and whined and scratched dangerously at the itch behind his ear. No helpful thoughts had been forthcoming. He had even thought in his lowest moment to alert somebody — a Dementor maybe — and try to warn the Ministry that way. That idea had flown out of his head as quickly as it had occurred to him. How many prisoners had screamed almost the same thing, and had been ignored? Screaming would get him no where. He thought he would have to live with this overwhelming fear and frustration for as long as it took to bring him down — no, but he refused to! There had to be a way.

_The kindle in Sirius's heart flamed hotter and brighter, expanding evermore. _

There _was_ a way. He just couldn't think enough to get to it.

The rattle of a latch had his head whipping towards the door. Was it lunch already? Or was it dinner? Or breakfast? He had been so out of it the last few days that he couldn't quite recall . . .

One of the fiends glided into his cell and set a plate of gruel on the ground.

The door behind it was left slightly ajar.

_And the flame of hope in Sirius's heart finally combusted._

There are moments when people are hit with epiphanies — great, crazy knowledge that strikes you suddenly and makes you wonder why you never thought or noticed it before. The recipient of an epiphany would often chide themselves afterwards for being such an idiot. Normally, epiphany's come very rarely in life. Sirius had only ever once experienced an epiphany, and that had been twelve years ago.

Right then, he encountered his second.

Before he knew it Sirius morphed into Padfoot and simply slipped by the Dementor, squeezed between the gap in his cell bars, and out the door. It had been that easy.

It was also easy to get out of the prison. He simply followed the Minister's five day old scent with his nose, once more blessing his younger self for becoming an Animagus, as the technique had proved invaluable to him in this prison and had saved his life as well as his sanity.

So, Sirius sniffed, nosing along the ground, following Fudge's scent for over an hour through the maze-like building before coming to a halt before a pair of wrought iron gates. Sirius once more simply slipped through, his emaciated body enabling him access, and he found himself, in an ironic twist of fate, actually thanking the Dementors for sometimes forgetting to bring him food, thus sending him into comas that ensured he never ate for several days . . .

His doggy nose helped again once he slipped through the bars, as, even with his canine eyes he could not hope to see through the fog. The dirt was pebbly beneath his paws and Sirius stepped gingerly over it, feeling the roll and crackle of the tiny rocks. Lifting his shaggy black head so that his nose stuck into the air, Sirius took a long, deep whiff.

_Ah._

There.

Salt water.

Sirius sniffed the air, starting off in a light trot and finishing in a sprint by the time he reached the water, adrenalin and pure excitement pumping through his limbs, aiding his speed. He jumped in without hesitating, the fall from cliff to water taking about ten seconds, the impact jarring his body uncomfortably. Sirius never registered the pain. The freezing sea soaked his fur, the salt stung his eyes, and his breath failed him. Back legs kicking furiously down, Sirius broke the surface, gasped for one little moment, and then immediately started paddling. He couldn't let himself rest. He couldn't be found out now. He didn't know where Azkaban was and he didn't know where he was going. His body was running now on pure determination. His impossible feat would catch up with him later and astound him, shock him, but right then Sirius Black did not care one jot because he had done it!

He was the first person ever to escape the impenetrable fortress of Azkaban.

He was free.

And he was going to get that rat.

xxxxxx

A/N: The news article does not belong to me, but instead comes from page 12 of_ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban._


	17. The Journey

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns _Harry Potter_. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot (and a couple of minor characters). I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.

A/N: I would recommend you read the last two chapters before reading this one. Pay particular attention to the dates.

Hmmm . . . what can I say about my absence? I've started my Masters this year and it's been taking up a lot of my time. My thesis is due in a couple of months and I'm beyond panicking. Everything I've been working towards this entire year is based on this one 10 000 word paper. This chapter I wrote partly out of guilt and partly to remain calm. I've discovered writing – that is, creative writing – to be a very relaxing pastime, but only when I forget not to feel guilty for abandoning my uni work.

Anyway, on with the chapter,

Hope you enjoy!

xxxxx

**Chapter Sixteen: The Journey**

Whatever joy Sirius thought he'd felt upon first escaping Azkaban was overpowered by the immense flood of emotion that filled his chest with every new second he swam away from the island. Compared to the elation Sirius felt now, that burst of exhilaration he had experienced upon seeing that slightly ajar cell door seemed a mere grain of sand in an entire universal beach of happiness. He'd had no earthly idea exactly how effected his mind had been behind those grimy walls, no idea of the depression that had seeped little by little into his soul, transitioning over the years into actual physicality; his body so thin and wasted now that he could hardly believe the creature in the watery reflection was him. That last plunge into the ice cold sea had, apart from invigorating his body, seemed also to wake him up from over a decade's worth of half-sleep. His heart felt as though it would burst from his chest, so 'awake' did he feel now.

Sirius had swum for days unaccounted for, even slept while he paddled, movements not connected to his brain but purely automatic. His limbs had gone numb a while ago and he had no control over his magic. At times, when his numb limbs were feeling too tired to carry on further his body transformed from that of a man into a dog seemingly on its own, compensating for his current euphoric high, which seemed to have addled his wits for he could only seem to think of the joy within him now and nothing else.

He could not think of the repercussions of escape either; could not think that he was in the middle of the ocean, with creatures of the deep surrounding him and land possibly hundreds of miles away. He could think only of his happiness and the knowledge that it had sprung because there were No. More. Dementors.

But never once, amidst all his reflective joy, did he lose sight of the reason behind his escape, and no matter his euphoric feelings, his numb limbs, his addled wits, the one purpose that kept him going was enough to overwhelm all of that . . .

Wormtail. _Harry_.

And so, he swam. In no particular direction. As a dog he was stronger, the muscles more durable, so he adopted Padfoot's form most of the time unless he forgot.

The sea was black during the never-ending twilight in these parts, and some not yet conscious piece of Sirius's mind acknowledged that only in some parts of the world was this phenomenon possible, but his conscious mind could not grasp the reality of it yet. Could not grasp that he had not seen the full night sky for a very long time. He saw colours, lots of colours, up near the clouds, but he didn't know what they were.

A family of whales appeared on either side of him once, moaning to each other and startling him. At one point an enormous flipper nudged him offhandedly, tossing him some metres away, but Sirius only laughed and nipped back at the flesh, too emersed in exhilaration to care. He even caught a ride on one slippery, humped back for a few miles of respite, human fingers digging hard into the barnacles for balance, the passing wind drying out the sea from his limbs, but leaving behind salt-encrusted skin, which he licked off, not acknowledging the reason behind the action to be that of extreme hunger. Sirius had to let go of his new friend when the creature and his family dived back into the depths, their forked tails seeming almost to wave goodbye as they disappeared beneath the waves.

And it was then that Sirius spotted it. A tiny fleck in the distance, a mere pinprick against the black horizon. So small he thought it sand on his eye at first.

Land.

His limbs took on a new fervour, and he swam now all the more swiftly, mind conjuring a new purpose in order to reach the old.

Land! Wormtail! Harry!

xxxxxxxxx

_July 30__th__, 1992_

"La-la-la-laaaaa!" squeaked the dragon before pirouetting on many clawed toes; its leathery wings flapped furiously, determined not to fall from its spot on the tiny white cloud.

It was very small and squishy and red. It wore a yellow tutu and delivered pumpkin juice to the crowd hovering around it on broomsticks. Or at least it had. Now it was attempting a triple back summersault leap to another cloud whilst snorting fire and whistling the tune of Celestina Warbeck's newest love song, "I Sense Magic in You!"

The dragon looked constipated as it attempted to purse its lizard lips in the correct moue in order to whistle louder, its little face growing impossibly redder with the effort. Eventually the whistling grew louder and shriller, and shriller still. The onlookers clapped hands to their ears, faces twisted in pain. The dragon just flew around, whistling merrily and painfully, until it halted in front of a short, grey-haired man, stared him straight in the eye and ROARED HIS NAME . . . !

"What — _Whoosit_? AHHHHRGH, GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU DRAGON!" The wizard sat up in bed, velvet embroidered coverlet clutched between pale-fingered hands and up against his throat as he stared around wild-eyed.

His wife, hair hidden under a red lace sleeping cap, gaped at him in open-mouthed consternation. "Cornelius, really! Dragon?!"

"What?" Cornelius blinked, glanced twitchily at his frowning wife. Blinked again. "Oh, it's you, dear. N-no I didn't mean — that is to say — I-I had the strangest dream about a dragon and a tutu — lot's of tutus — and singing and pumpkin juice and what in Merlin's name is that horrible noise?!"

The terrible shrilling from his dream seemed to have followed him to the waking world.

"_That_ is why I woke you," she said, looking placated now that an answer had presented itself. "It's coming from the fireplace. By Merlin, I've never heard anything so irritating — started about a minute ago."

Cornelius went suddenly very still and small.

His wife blinked at him, stare curious. "Are you all right?"

Cornelius gulped, whispered, "I don't fancy having to talk to Dementors now."

His wife blinked again. "It's coming from Azkaban?" she asked in surprise, but mostly in shock, now staring at the hearth as if the flames could come alive, wrap themselves around her ankles, and drag her bodily to the prison.

The Minister for Magic nodded, eyes now barely visible over the drawn up coverlet.

"Well? What does it mean?"

Cornelius winced at the commanding tone. He slowly lowered his covers. He licked his lips. He cleared his throat. "I-It's never happened before, that's why I didn't recognise the shrilling immediately. I mean, Milicent Bagnold told me about it w-when I took over in office but I never thought . . ."

"What's never happened before?" she asked impatiently when it seemed as if he could go on no longer.

"There's been a security breech," he wheezed.

His wife gasped so hard and long that she actually started choking. Cornelius' senses had flown along with his courage (not that he had ever had much) so he was in no position to help her. In fact, it took her several long seconds to appropriate the correct vocal chords in order to speak.

"B-but who?!" she yelped, eyes glazing over. "Who could have — I-IMPOSSIBLE — alarm . . . must be broken — HOW? — never been done before — WHO?!" she finished, hysterical.

"I-I don't know," the Minister whispered through the coverlet in the same tone one would say "You're asking me?", but his eyes were darting.

His wife shook her head, at loss for words. "Well find out! Go on!" she barked when it looked as though he wouldn't.

Cornelius, trembling, made to get out of the bed. His wife yanked him back instantly. "Wait!" she squealed. "Don't leave me here by myself. You're the Minister! An important authority figure! What if whoever it is comes here to get us?"

Cornelius paled even more. "Y-you're absolutely right, dear. We have to alert the press, the Aurors, the muggle Prime Minister. I'll send another alarm through the floo. That ought to get everyone — yes I-I'll go and do that."

He threw back the covers, pushed his trembling toes into his bunny slippers, then just sat there. For long seconds. The shock of hearing the alarm and all that it meant was wearing down now and overwhelming fear and anxiety were slowly consuming him. Dread crept in along with the negative feelings also, intermingling, but it was so small at this point in time that he barely noticed it. But the feeling was still there, along with the dreaded sense that this was just the first in a long line of problems to come.

His wife had told him to check, to see the Dementors. He would check, just to confirm, but he knew that he needn't.

Call it simple knowledge, call it fear, call it intuition, call it sixth sense, but Cornelius was very certain — as certain as he was that his name was Cornelius Oswald Fudge and he'd grown a wart on the end of his smallest left toe — that he _knew_ who . . . .

xxxxxx

Jerrick Handsel had always been a particularly sceptical man.

His wife liked to say that maybe he could even be _too_ sceptical at times, a fact that clearly irritated all who knew him. This disbelief, this propensity towards scepticism that he could never learn to shove out of his system, was perhaps the reason why Jerrick had such a hard time trying to believe exactly what it was his eyes were now telling him. Of course, the fog played tricks on people all the time — and had been known to do so as recently as a week ago when poor Bjarny thought he'd spotted a wood sprite standing on the opposite shore near the most hazardous part of the fjord, beckoning to him seductively (they still hadn't found Bjarny's body after he'd gone to visit "her" that second night). But Jerrick didn't believe _fog_ was the answer in his case.

For one, there was no fog. Unusual at this time of morning, but true all the same.

For another, he actually _was_ seeing something. He just wasn't sure what.

With narrowed ice-blue eyes Jerrick watched the "creature" (he refused to believe it a man, though his eyes had told him something different a minute ago) struggle against the current, its limbs paddling swiftly but tiredly.

It really was too huge. Or, rather, too _long_. It had the look of something that might have once been huge but recent diet, or lack of, had thinned its body out. Still, its head was _massive,_ easily surpassing a normal dog's by at least a foot in diameter. Its paws, from what little Jerrick could see as they sliced through the black water, had to be as big as a grown man's hands.

A sudden chill crept up Jerrick's spine as he watched the creature struggle through the fjord. A brief memory from his mother's old book of _Norse Myths and Legends_ crept into his brain and refused to leave. Of Fenrir, the monstrous wolf prophesised to kill Odin during Ragnarok, the Viking version of the end of the world. Fenrir had bitten the hand off some God or other and Jerrick was sure he'd read that the wolf had procreated, resulting in two offspring.

An impossible thought occurred, as impossible thoughts occur in impossible situations: what if the _offspring_ had procreated as well?

Jerrick looked hard at the still struggling creature. Its mouth gaped wide as it panted, its long pink tongue trailed through the water and its fangs glinted white and long and sharp and massive and _sharp_ against the blackness of its fur.

The fisherman shivered.

This dog, looking so much like what he'd always thought the god-wolf should look like, and appearing on the heels of Bjarny's wood sprite, was enough to scare the sceptic in Jerrick, and he picked up his paddles with the intent to swiftly get out of there. Sceptic or not, nobody sane would want to stay in the presence of such a huge beast.

xxxxx

"You're fired."

Antoinette had to bite her tongue hard to stop the automatic — and, in her opinion, warranted — "what?!" from erupting out of her mouth like an exploding cauldron of noxious liquids. Instead she breathed deeply, subtly, thrice, and continued looking Bartemius Crouch in the eye.

Calm. She had to remain calm. _Calm_, damn it!

"For what reason am I being dismissed?" she queried, voice all politeness. Inside she was boiling! The last time she'd been this annoyed, this furious, was — well, she didn't want to relive that particular memory, especially not now with the current circumstances . . .

Crouch looked grim. Understandable, since they'd become quite close over the years. Not friends, but certainly allies. Yet to fire her . . .? She tuned in quickly when her employer started speaking. "Surely you understand, Mrs Black?" he sighed quietly, clasping hands behind his back. The black-haired wizard currently stood before the window, the simulated sunlight throwing the wrinkles on his face into harsher rigidness. "You, too, are a political being, just as I am. When you read the _Prophet_ this morning you understood immediately what the consequences would be. Don't have the nerve to act affronted now."

Slender shoulders, clad in immaculate blue silk robes, stiffened in outrage for exactly one second before slumping heavily in defeat.

Crouch was right. She _should_ have known.

She should have expected this, really. Should have prepared herself. But she had still been too shocked over what she'd read in the paper not two hours ago. Still been utterly humiliated over having to listen to everyone pitying her or sneering at her or trying to offer her comfort. She had milked the condolences, the pity, for all they were worth, knowing that she might now have to work on rebuilding her reputation all over again. And all because her murderous husband had thought to escape Azkaban. Wasn't it supposed to be impossible?!

"He's used the dark arts, what else could it be?" Kingsley had told her, gently, when she had first regained consciousness in the privacy of his office and spoken her shock out loud. Then he'd given her a cup of strong tea and offered to take her home. She'd refused. Antoinette had had a sudden, desperate need to speak to Crouch, to find out where he stood in all the mess. Her very proper superior had been the one to arrest Sirius after the Dark Lord's fall and Antoinette understood with all the logic of someone who knew him well that he still considered it to be his greatest capture to date. He had to have been simply fuming at this unexpected turn of events. She realised that Crouch would be feeling slighted, at fault, somehow; as if Sirius' escape could somehow be linked back to him, back to his 'good' name. Having a good reputation, for Crouch, was his number one priority. Having Sirius Black's wife under his employ might have been permissible before this disaster, but certainly not after it.

As she stared at Crouch's rigid back in his formal black office robes, the folds of which were invisible amongst the pristinely pressed fabric, his stance could not have been any colder, his aura could not have been more dismissive. It was painfully clear to Antoinette that he wasn't going to be turning around and facing her anytime soon. Whatever she'd thought of Crouch (and it was a lot) she had never even considered the possibility that he should be acting the proverbial coward. Surely the man who had captured so many Death Eaters, who had discovered their hiding places, who had tortured them for information, was anything but? Surely she deserved more respect from someone she'd been working under for the past ten years other than a cold brush off?

"That's really all you have to say to me, sir?" she asked now, voice flinty. The tone in her voice lent slightly towards begging also but Antoinette was too proud a creature to consciously acknowledge it.

Crouch's stance turned even more rigid. He sighed once, hard, and unexpectedly whirled around, his polished shoes squeaking on the marble floor, pinning her with a glare. The action was so strange and unbecoming of how he usually presented himself that Antoinette could only stare, blue eyes wide. "What more could I possibly have to say?" He cleared his throat, rather evenly, before continuing in a tone that froze steel. "Other than to let you know that the Minister's Junior Undersecretary had been terminated this morning, effective immediately, for a very unfortunate wrongdoing."

Antoinette stilled, eyes widening even more. "Indeed?"

As a pureblood she understood political intrigue when it was being shoved right under her nose; she was no simpleton, she knew what Crouch was trying to tell her. Excitement and hope built in her chest. She felt as if she could kiss him!

Fortunately, only a mad person would attempt to kiss Crouch, so Antoinette contended herself with asking him what he expected her to ask. "What kind of unfortunate circumstance?"

Crouch blinked slowly, expression calculating, as if trying to judge her worthy of the impartment of such delicate knowledge. At last he opened his mouth, and said, softly, "It seems as if the Minister suspects him, at least in part, for Black's escape."

As it always happened when someone mentioned Sirius in any context other than to compare him to a slug, Antoinette straightened her spine in a contrived act of subconscious protection — making sure, as was her due, to paint a layer of disdain over her face so that Crouch could never know the ghostly pain of betrayal that lingered even now after all these years.

Instead she bit her lip (an unfortunate weakness) and queried, "How so?"

Crouch never had been one to wishy-wash. "Cotswold's employment was terminated due to simple negligence on his part: it seems that he dropped his wand right outside Black's cell for a time of about five minutes." Here the black-haired wizard paused, as if to gauge her reaction, but spotting nothing other than what Antoinette conveyed — that of cool, wide-eyed concentration — continued on. "The details are sketchy, but according to Cornelius Cotswold became frightened of something and didn't think to pick his wand up afterwards, after which he and the Minister ventured to three more cells in the high-security ward before they remembered."

"They didn't think to check and see if Black had used it for anything?!" Antoinette almost screeched. The incompetence of the Minister and his party wasn't to be born!

"The wand was apparently lying far enough away from Black's cell that he couldn't possibly have reached it." Crouch said coldly, embarrassing her. "As it stands, the Minister is now convinced that Black used dark magic to somehow summon it to him, after which he preformed an unlocking charm before placing the wand back."

"But why would Black wait until — how long as it been since the Minister's annual inspection? Six days?" Unknowingly she started to pace, something that she'd only ever done when extremely agitated and certainly _never_ in Crouch's presence. But she was too shocked now, too shaken with all that she'd heard, too stunned, to think of the potential repercussions such lack of decorum could bring. "And if Black escaped yesterday morning that would make it five days after he supposedly used Cotswold's wand." She looked up at her former boss, eyes imploring. "Why wait so long . . .?"

"Only Black knows, Antoinette" said Crouch softly using, very rarely, the title of her first name. This was enough of a shock to calm her down and put a halt to her pacing. "All we do know, and this information came direct from the Minister's lips, is that Black isn't as mad as he ought to be."

She froze, heart beating fast. "What to you mean?" she asked, slow, throat quivering.

"He was the only Death Eater in the high-security ward that spoke to the Minister directly and rationally. He seemed, according to Cornelius, quite altogether. Even asked him for the newspaper he'd been toting under his arm, something about wanting to do the crossword."

_Crossword?_ Antoinette had a complete unAntoinetteish urge to laugh hysterically. Instead, she choked down a sob. "Dark magic?" she questioned. The thought of a sane Sirius seemed somehow worse than an insane one.

"So the Minister and his subordinates suspect." He looked her straight in the eye. "So I suspect."

The smile that appeared on her face then, she knew, was the bitterest of bitter. "So everyone suspects," she whispered.

"Indeed," Crouch sighed. He turned to face the window once more, hands clasped behind his back in the exaggerated pose of the very disciplined. "As you have probably already deduced, Cornelius is not planning to tell the wizarding public of the Ministry's supposed incompetence — naturally this would be an embarrassment to us. He _is_ planning to tell media representatives that Black used dark magic, taught to him by his former lord, to escape the impossibly inescapable prison." He hesitated, looked over at her with his peripheral vision. "Only the Department Heads were intrusted with this highly delicate secret. I trust I needn't mention that _you_ should not attempt to convey any part of this conversation to anyone. In fact, I shall deny it if you do and people will be more inclined to believe me than the wife of an escaped murderer."

Antoinette wasn't offended. She understood why he'd told her, and at great personal risk to him, his job, and his so carefully built reputation. But she asked him why anyway. _Had_ to ask him why.

"Because you _will_ hear it again when you begin to work under him, which will be never if you don't leave now," said Crouch, for the first time showing emotion since she had walked into his office that morning. "You know what to do, Mrs Black. Good day. And good luck."

He didn't look at her again, though his tone had been almost fond.

Antoinette calmly turned and walked the few steps to the door, nervous tension pulsing along with the beat of her heart. She reached for the antique brass handle, opened the door. Didn't acknowledge the curious stares of colleagues that were loitering in the corridor instead of at their desks, working. "Thank you, sir," she said, so softly that he mightn't have heard.

Then she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.

She would never speak to nor acknowledge him again.

She had more important fish to fry.

She was nervous, certainly, for what she was about to do, but then anyone would be. Antoinette had played her cards right through the years, made friends and contacts in other departments, slowly climbing up the social and political ladders. Crouch might have been forced to dismiss her, but that was a matter of personal preference; his belief in having a strong political presence and hardy reputation by far surpassed any affection he may have felt for her.

Others, however, did not feel the same.

Crouch had done her a favour — a last hurrah for the assistance and companionship she'd provided these past ten years to a frankly unstimulating job and to a lonely, traditionally-upheld man — he had hinted to her what she had to do. If she managed to pull it off it would be the biggest coup in her political career. Not to mention her life. She _would_ get other work, better work, and she knew just where to go to get it.

All the way to the top.

But first she needed to find Delores Umbridge.

xxxxxxxxx

The blonde man in the little boat was staring at him in fear and shock, but Sirius acknowledged his presence only by transforming into a dog once more. He had to get to the shore. The current had brought him to an inland river of sorts, a ford, and there were just a few more metres until he reached the banks.

Fatigue should have been setting in (should have arrived days ago, in fact) but Sirius's adrenalin, Padfoot's adrenalin, was such that Sirius was not feeling tired. The exhilaration, also, was sustaining him and hadn't yet begun to abate. It was as though he had snorted a gallon of muggle 'happy pills' and had yet to recover from the effects, so pumped and full of life did he feel — the first time in nearly twelve years.

Now that he could actually _see_ the shore, and know that it wasn't an illusion, assisted his muscles into working harder. He just needed to reach it, that rocky, mossy beach, and everything would be all right. Nothing mattered but reaching it. The outside world, the man in the little boat, even the limb-numbing water surrounding him failed to register in his consciousness. At last when he finally reached the shore, collapsing onto the banks, the water lapping at his back paws, did Sirius finally allow himself to rest, to feel the fatigue, and the adrenalin high he'd been riding for the past few days disappeared as swiftly as a wave breaking against tumultuous rocks. His body, limp now, fatigued almost to the point of death, but sated.

Yes . . . he had done it.

The large dog gasped out one last, deep sigh of satiation, before its eyes closed, its head lolled awkwardly to the side, dreaming of nothing.

xxxxxxxxx

Antoinette paused on the threshold of her front door, staring blankly at the scratch that sat just above the knob, the edges of which white paint peeled out in thin curls.

_Strange how one notices little things when one's life has spun so erratically out of one's control. _The thought drifted into her head and out again like a summer breeze. She blinked herself back into reality, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

A chill greeted her the moment she entered, a consequence from a previously cast cooling charm that had spun slightly out of control and which she'd never thought to fix, preferring, instead, to acquaint herself with a bundle of warm blankets in front of a merrily crackling fire. In her youth (which, truth to tell, still existed) she had always preferred winter to summer. Because of the picturesque image the former brought to mind or because of her temperament Antoinette had yet to determine.

She unclipped her blue-hooded cloak and hung it on one of the hooks beside the door, under-robes shimmering almost green in the light of the yellow hallway lamp. There, she paused and stared. This would probably be the last time in a long time that she would be performing these actions in her own house. Comfort, she had once felt here, comfort in the little things, the little step-by-step actions that were part of her way of living. Coming home every day after work and hanging up her hood had, she now noted, been a simple contentment, something she'd once dismissed as irrelevant . . . but no more. Comfort had deserted her. Alphard's old house had become an enemy overnight.

Something foreign and singular made its way down her cheek, and the only reason she'd noticed at all was because the preceding charmed air had left in its place a cold, wet line.

Antoinette released her death grip on the cloak and turned to face the empty corridor.

"Kreacher?"

The elf popped into view under the lamp, the stiff white hairs between his bat-like ears trembling. The yellow light bounced off his walnut-like skull, gleaming grey and knobbly. Antoinette stared, fascinated.

"Mistress?" Kreacher croaked.

"You've packed everything?"

"Kreacher has."

"You've heard the news, I imagine."

"Kreacher has read from the paper, Mistress, of the blood traitor's escape."

"Then we leave for Grimmauld Place. Now."

Absolute silence as Kreacher stared at her in shock.

"Was there something particularly hard about the request?" Antoinette asked her servant, still staring at the fragile little white hairs.

Kreacher shook his head, ears flapping dully against his skull. "Mistress wishes to go back to Grimmauld Place?" he asked, tone tentative and disbelieving.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"But Mistress has always told Kreacher that she would never again step foot in . . ." Kreacher stopped speaking on his own accord as Antoinette blinked at him slowly. It frightened him, her lack of awareness.

"Things have changed now, Kreacher," she whispered to the elf. An alabaster pale, long-fingered hand smoothed out a crease in the collar about her neck. "My husband has done what everyone had thought to be the impossible and escaped Azkaban. I am a sitting duck here. I need the protection of the wards that only Grimmauld Place can offer."

"The blood traitor master can pass through the wards," Kreacher pointed out in a helpful tone.

"Not if another master is currently residing behind them and refuses him entry," she reminded the elf.

"Of course, Mistress."

"Very well, then. We're leaving now."

"Of course, Mistress."

"I'm now the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Kreacher," she told him, smiling slightly. "After a three hour interview, I managed to get it."

"Well done, Mistress."

"This should be one of the happiest moments in my life. Strange it should happen in the midst of such, personal, chaos, isn't it?"

"Mistress has to go now. Mistress has to be safe. Kreacher shall escort her out." A firm, spindly-fingered hand grasped her gently about the wrist and, almost as a parent leads their child, ushered her down the corridor and towards the drawing room fireplace.

"Yes. Out. Safe. Where he can't find us."

xxxxxxxx

The dog had been rescued, dumped gently into his hastily retrieved wheelbarrow after a lot of hemming and hawing and ushered onto the warm rug in front of his fireplace.

Jerrick did not go to the morning markets that day (the first time in three decades), nor did he go the next day. Or the next. Instead he tried nursing the big black dog to health. His wife wasn't all too pleased (about his defection or his playing nursemaid to a washed up mongrel) but he'd always held a soft spot for animals (unlike his wife) and had always wanted a dog (wife, again) and, he reflected, this one gave him the opportunity to fell two birds with one stone, as it were. Despite the dog's resemblance to the monstrous beast of myth, Jerrick fantasised for days about waking up to a wet tongue licking his face in gratitude and became very fond of this fantasy. So much so that he spent nearly all waking hours by the dog's side, eagerly waiting for it to rouse to see if his hope would come true.

xxxxxxxx

_Sniff._

_Sniff. Sniff. Sniiiiiiifffff._

_Smell. Delightful, delicious, what is it? What . . ?! _

The wet black nose, slightly sheeny from the flames in the nearby hearth, twitched experimentally as a smell — _delightful_ smell, really. Delightful and warm and _food! Food! Food! — _soaked his nostrils.

Sirius sat up jerkily, tongue lolling and drool seeping from out the corners of his mouth. His stomach growled a greeting and Sirius growled back, too thrilled by the implications of what the smell actually meant to care.

A bowl, a large wooden bowl, lay beside him, but what was in the bowl was far more tempting to Sirius's palate. Without out pausing to thinking about anything, he stuffed his entire head into it, as if by doing so he could somehow devour the food from within an imaginary mouth at his temple. Not that he cared; he was more intent on finishing it as fast as possible, frankly. In fact he was so intent on finishing it, that it took him up to the time when he finished licking his chops to sense that there was anyone in the room with him at all. When he finally acknowledged the person sitting next to him in the wood-framed armchair, he scrambled up and scuttled backwards, hitting a wall with dull bang.

"_Goddag,"_ said the blond man, smiling faintly.

An instinctual growl threatened to rise from his throat; Sirius suppressed it. He wasn't too far gone not to know that this man had been the one to feed him that delicious stew.

The man in question extended a hand, eyes slightly wary, but no less gentle. Sirius wagged his tail half-heartedly. The leap from hearth to wall had exhausted him and he was clever enough to establish he would not get anywhere without a protracted rest. This man would give it to him.

With that thought in mind, Sirius slumped to the floor, belly first, in heavy placation, large eyes soulful and tail thumping as joyously as he could get it to. He permitted himself a helpless whimper; the sound worked, as the man's expression eased. He began to walk towards Sirius, movements small still, but hand extended firmly and without fear.

He spoke in a gentle murmur. _"Artig arbeidsdrengen." _

_What in Merlin . . .? _Sirius had no idea what that meant only that it sounded almost Scandinavian. "Wuff!" he barked in greeting, and the man jumped. Sirius's canine nose picked up a common enough scent, one that had permeated Azkaban with never-ending intensity, one that had drenched its walls in putridity. Yes, he could smell the momentary release of pheromone and consequent sweat — the man had become frightened in that one instant but had regained almost instant sobriety upon remembering there was no danger.

"_Artig arbeidsdrengen," _the man repeated again. Upon noting the mollifying tone of voice, gentle countenance, and cautious scent, Sirius was intelligent enough to put together that he was being called a 'Good boy'.

The extra appendage attached to his buttocks thumped an even speedier tattoo on the wooden floor.

The man took this as the invite it was intended to be and finally placed his hand on Sirius' head. _"__Du er ikke altså ar"_, he said happily.

Sirius barked but this time the man did not jump.

He let himself be petted a few minutes, the man even kissing him on his head in delight at apparently being permitted to touch him, when a sudden new scent assailed his nose, a flowery/fishy concoction, before booted feet stomped into the room.

"_Anika!"_ the man exclaimed, warm hand jerking from Sirius' temple.

A woman stood in the threshold. A blonde woman with dark blue eyes and a vicious crease stamped in the middle of her forehead._ "Jerrick,"_ the woman said back, eyes focused on Sirius. Her scent changed, then: fear mixed in with caution along with a healthy dose of anger and disgust. Well . . . Sirius had always thought he looked rather loveable as a dog. Apparently not . . .

"_Hvad er den skønt gør her ovre? JEG indfald JEG fortalt jer hen til komme af med sig!". _

"_JEG skal!" _said Jerrick.

"_JEG savn sig op fra mig hus!" _shouted his wife, pointing a stick-like finger in Sirius's direction, then at the door.

The message was unmistakable._ Bloody hell . . ._ he did not have time for this. His mission now was to recover as fast as possible and be on his way. He still had a rat to ea – _catch_, and a godson to find. He did not need this Merlin-damned bint . . . _Argh_! The sound his mind conjured vocalised as a rather vicious growl. The woman choked on what she'd been saying, turning terrified eyes in his direction.

Her gaze jerked to her husband's. "Ud , ud, ud!"

When Jerrick sighed, eyes downcast, Sirius knew his rest was over.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It had taken him a couple of weeks to reach England, once he'd stolen a map from a muggle travel shop and deciphered the undecipherable. He caught a lift in a large truck carrying chickens in metal cages and it was the work of nothing to paw at the lock and snatch a fat one out with his jaws. It would shame him even years later to think about how he'd devoured the squawking bird, its guts squelching between his fangs but its meat so hot and tender and filling . . . if he thought too long about it he had the urge to throw up. Or drool.

More and more did his depression wane. The further behind Azkaban went, the happier Sirius became in spirit and body. If he thought his limbs could let him get away with it, he would run up and down the streets, barking for all the world to hear, "I'm free, I'm free, and you were wrong! I escaped Azkaban. I did, I did, and you'll never know how!"

He wept also, of course, from pleasure at his freedom, but mostly because he knew that it would be impossible to convince anyone of his innocence, let alone the four people he most desperately wanted to know. Remus believed him the traitor, Dumbledore, in his mind, had indisputable proof of his guilt, Harry, his beautiful little Harry, had probably heard all about how much of a coward, traitor, backstabber, etc, he was from people he deemed friends and confidants to give him the benefit of the doubt now, and Antoinette . . . Antoinette. . . .

The chickens clucked around him, shifting their feathers guardedly, and despite the smell of the chicken crap saturating the air Sirius attempted to rest his head on his paws and allow himself to think on his wife. Toni had, he believed, never really trusted him. He had treated her far too poorly in the little time they'd known each other for her to even think of trusting him now. Forcing her to listen would do no good: she had always been stubborn. It amused him to realise he felt proud of that. _Toni, Toni, where do you now? Who do you now?_

The anger that came with that thought was so debilitating Sirius believed he might actually bite through his own jaw. _No, no, no! Enough!_ he screamed at himself. In fact, he wasn't even sure that Antoinette _was_ his wife anymore. Surely she would have gotten their marriage annulled at the soonest possible opportunity?

It took a cacophony of squawking, battering, terrified chickens to make him realise he'd uttered a deep, low growl.

He barked at them to shut up, but that only made them squawk even more. At the rate they were going the driver would soon be alerted. In desperation Sirius shifted to a man. But now he was cramped, no space between his body and the chicken cages.

_Everlasting, buggering . . . _Oh well, he'd slept in worse conditions. It didn't really matter anyway. How he got to England, what he had to eat to survive . . . he would be killing rat soon. That was all that mattered.

Soon.

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A/N: I have no idea if the Danish is right. If there are any Danish readers out there, could you maybe give me a heads up?


End file.
